Tartarus Rising
by Gaia was Framed
Summary: "We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately." Ben Franklin, at the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
1. Prologue Pt I: Percy

**AUTHOR'S NOTE AND PREFACE: **This is a crossover fanfiction, containing characters, places, items, concepts, and events from _Percy Jackson and the Olympians, The Heroes of Olympus, Maximum Ride, The Mortal Instruments, Artemis Fowl, The Pendragon Adventure, Inception, The Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, _and _Calvin and Hobbes, _with walk-on characters from _Diary of a Wimpy Kid, The Middle, _and the _Fudge _books. It contains original characters, all of whom can be quite irritating. I will not be offended if you don't like them. This story follows the arc of _The Last Olympian, _takes place in the aftermath of _Fang, _and contains some events from the beginning of _City of Bones. _

**WARNING: **Since this story, by its nature as a crossover, is somewhat Alternate Universe, please don't be offended if things happen differently than they did in the originals. Pairings might get split up or put together strangely, back-stories might be different, and anyone can die.

**DISCLAIMER: **I am not Rick Riordan, James Patterson, Cassandra Clare, Eoin Colfer, D.J. MacHale, Christopher Nolan, J.R.R. Tolkien (may he rest in peace), C.S. Lewis (may he rest in peace), Bill Watterson, Jeff Kinney, anyone from the ABC network, or Judy Blume. I doubt any of you thought I was. That said, I do not own the rights to most of the characters, places, items, concepts, and events in this story. There. Now we can proceed.

* * *

><p>PROLOGUE, SCENE ONE<p>

The athletic youth climbed out of the taxi and stood on the curb at the gate of the Dare mansion.

Percy shook off his hood, letting snowflakes settle in his hair. This place always made him nervous. Having grown up in a crammed little Queens apartment, he couldn't imagine living every day in such a grand house as this.

He hoped Rachel felt better now than when she'd called him last night. Was she always so unhinged? Or just around him, dealing with all his problems?

A familiar prickly sensation scuttled down his spine. Someone was watching him.

_Please don't be Annabeth,_ Percy thought. Half of him was smitten with that grey-eyed girl from Camp, who he'd known since nearly the beginning of his adventures. The other half was enchanted by the vivacious clear-sighted mortal whose house he stood at the gate of. Last summer he'd seen that neither girl could stand to be within fifty miles of the other. If Annabeth had followed him here, there were going to be fireworks.

Percy slipped his hand into his jeans pocket, where he kept his very special pen. Slowly he turned his head.

There were actually two people staring at him; boys about his age, maybe a little older. One was even more tanned and wiry-muscled than Percy. His friend was over six feet tall and thin as a willow-wand, pale as the falling snow. Both wore their hair long; the tanned one was blond, and the pale one had black hair. Both were dressed head to toe in black. The blond carried a knife, his friend a bow and quiver. The long sleeves of their black coats couldn't quite conceal the swirling black tattoos that went all the way up their arms.

Percy knew them—not well, but better than he'd like to.

He waited for a pause in traffic, and then ran across the street to face them.

"Lightwood, Wayland," he barked. "What are you doing here?"

The blond smiled—a strange, bright white, somewhat lopsided smile. His yellow eyes bulged. Percy knew someone else who now had bright yellow eyes. He liked that guy even less than these two.

"We're watching you, Jackson," he drawled. "What does it look like we're doing?"

"I figured that out. Why are you watching me?"

"The same reason you and your friends watch us," muttered the tall pale boy.

"Well, not the exact same reason," his friend mused. "Annabeth Chase, for example, watches us because she appreciates my stunning good looks."

"Shut up, Jace," Percy hissed. "You're just saying that to make me angry."

He knew Annabeth still had a crush on Luke Castellan—despite Luke going all evil on them and plotting to destroy the cosmos. Her taste was not always good. But she'd never give a swaggering bully like Jace a second glance—or would she?

"If I did, it's working." Jace started picking the dirt from under his fingernails with his dagger, looking like he'd rather put the blade to a more exciting purpose, such as hacking off Percy's head and hanging it up on his wall next to all his giant posters of himself.

Percy felt anger rise in him like a tidal wave but decided not to take the bait. "Do you know who lives in that house across the street?" he asked in a tight voice.

"Rachel Elizabeth Dare," stated Jace's friend. "The mundane that has the nerve to see through our glamours and act like she's part of our world."

"Rachel can't help having the Sight!" Percy exclaimed. "She doesn't want any part in our world, but it keeps sucking her in, putting her in danger. She thinks it's a curse. It's a terrible drain on her."

"So why did you look so perturbed when you climbed out of that taxi?" Jace smirked. "Are you and Rachel up to something…dangerous? Subversive?...Demonic, perhaps?"

"Jace, that's going too far," murmured his friend.

"No it's not, Alec. You agree with me. You're just too chicken to say it out loud."

Percy had often wondered why Alec stuck with Jace when Jace so often verbally abused him like that. In fact, Percy pitied Alec. Despite his good looks and archery skills, the boy always seemed miserable. But Alec was such a maladjusted jerk already that Percy never felt sorry for him for longer than five minutes.

He took his pen out of his pocket and uncapped it. As it morphed into a long bronze sword, it drove Alec and Jace back a few feet.

"I don't know how to break this to you gentlemen, but the world does not in fact revolve around you. We demigods have better things to do with our time than try to annoy you Nephilim."

"Such as get a bit too friendly with clear-sighted mundanes who have ulterior motives?" asked Jace, who—as you've probably noticed by now—never knew when enough was enough.

"No. The things we do are so important; we can't tell silly little children like you anything about them."

He turned back, leaving them gaping at the insult. Looking over his shoulder he added a parting shot: "Perhaps you fellas could learn something from me—like protecting vulnerable and confused people like Rachel, instead of trying to kill them."


	2. Prologue Pt II: Rachel

PROLOGUE, SCENE TWO

Rachel stood watching this unfold from her bedroom window.

"Who are they?" she asked Percy when he came up.

He yanked off his hoodie and hung it on a coat peg jutting from her wall.

"They're evil, that's what," he grumbled.

"I guessed as much," said Rachel, biting her lip. "What sort of creature are they?"

Percy came to stand beside her. "They're Nephilim. They claim that they're descended from angels."

Alec and Jace were now sitting on a bench on the sidewalk across the street, taking turns peering through a pair of binoculars. Jace pointed at the window and his mouth moved, indicating speech. Alec threw back his head and laughed, sending his ski hat sliding off his head. Whatever Jace had said, Rachel doubted it was kind to her and her demigod boyfriend—her demigod friend, that is.

"Angels?" she repeated. "I thought they were more of a Jewish-Christian-Muslim type thing. How do they get along with the gods?"

"I don't rightly know," Percy admitted. "I was never into the theological philosophical part of all this. Some Apollo kids back at Camp host a Socratic discussion on the Big House Portico every week during the summer, but I never go. It bores me."

He stalked over to the other side of the room, where Rachel's computer sat asleep.

"The point is," he finished, "I don't believe the Nephilim have anything to do with angels, assuming such creatures exist. Angels are supposed to be all good, and those guys are all bad."

"Wait. Is that Alec and…what's his name…the dude who's in love with himself…?"

"Jace."  
>"Stupid name."<p>

"Agreed."

"But didn't they help you and Travis and Connor kill that snake-lady who was terrorizing Broadway?"

"They did—only because they didn't have anything better to do. Sometimes I think they're worse than the monsters. I told you about the Flamethrower Incident, right?"

Rachel sat down on the beanbag chair in front of her computer and woke it up. "What about the so-called 'bird kids'? Are they evil too?"

Percy twisted his lip in thought.

Rachel could not deny that the Nephilim boys, Jace and Alec, were incredibly handsome. Percy was actually handsomer, but the rumor of his beauty never seemed to go before him like it did them. Why this might be was beyond her. She loved his shy smile, his self-depreciating sense of humor, how his ADHD made his fingers move almost constantly. She loved how his olive skin and jet-black hair made you assume he had brown eyes, but when he shook his long wavy bangs out of his face you could see his eyes were bright emerald green, green as the sea of Poseidon, his father. Perhaps what made him more attractive than them was that, while Alec and Jace were all too aware of their good looks, Percy had no idea he was cute.

_If Annabeth keeps flip-flopping between you and that horrible Luke, she doesn't deserve you, honey, _Rachel thought.

"I'm not sure about the Bird Kids," Percy said at last. "I know that last summer, when Annabeth and Grover and I entered the Labyrinth, we met them underground. I forget who insulted who first, but we got in a big fight. Max—the lead girl—nearly broke my arm. They might be ok, though. Maybe they thought we were evil. Why do you ask?"

Rachel double-clicked on the Google icon and scrolled through her bookmarks. "Here's why."

A page loaded with the title "Fang's Blog" at the top.

The latest entry, near the top of the page, had the title "Calling all half-bloods."

It included a video, probably taken on a built-in computer webcam. It showed a boy the same age as Percy and just as attractive—tanned, with shaggy black hair and incredibly dark eyes, dressed all in black. He appeared to be speaking from a hotel room.

"Hey," he said, looking earnestly at the camera. "Yo everyone, if you've been keeping up with my blog, you know that I have broken up with Max, and I have left my Flock.

"The world needs to be saved, and if Max and I stayed together, it wouldn't happen. We were way too much in love.

"I've already posted several videos asking for other mutant kids to contact me. Thank you everyone who has. If you haven't, do it soon. We don't have a whole lot of time.

"Right now, though, I'm asking someone else for help: the demigods. For those of you who don't know, the Greek gods live among us…and they have an awful lot of kids. Kids with superpowers. Kids who can save the world.

"Children of the gods, listen to me: I need your help. I know that I and my fellow mutants can't save the world by ourselves. Join us, and perhaps we can preserve this world for a few more centuries. If not—let's not think about that.

"I extend a special invitation to the most powerful half-bloods I know of: Thalia Grace, Jason Grace, Percy Jackson, Nico di Angelo, Charles Beckendorf, Reyna Scarlatti, Annabeth Chase, and Luke Castellan. Contact me. We can work out a central location to meet and brainstorm.

"Changing the subject now, I have a lead on some scientists who used to be part of the School, but left because of what they term 'human and animal rights violations': Rebekah Waters and her husband, Patrick Blackwood. They live in Arizona. I think they'll help me get some answers about where me and my friends came from. Maybe they can help us bring down Itex from the inside.

"Fly on,

"Fang."

The video ended.

Percy and Rachel exchanged incredulous looks.

"He doesn't know about Luke," she whispered. "What if Luke—Kronos—decided to show up? That could be real bad."

"I can't decide which would be worse," Percy concurred, "Fang and Kronos joining forces, or Fang being on our side and getting killed by Kronos. Jason Grace died when he was a little boy, and I've never heard of any Reyna Scarlatti. Where's Fang getting his info? I'm not sure about this, Rachel. I'm not sure about anything anymore."

He hung his head. She laid her hand lightly on his shoulder.

He seemed so burdened lately, like someone who knew he would die soon. Not for the first time, Rachel wondered how she could ease his pain.

Selfishly, she also often wondered if he could ease her pain too. For so long now, she had suffered from these terrifying visions—

And there was something else she needed to tell him.

"Percy, you know the girl from Ireland who's my family's new…" (Rachel had never liked the word "servant"; it drove home just how rich and sheltered she was) "…new helper-outer person?"

"Yes. Her name is Juliet Butler and she's very pretty." He smiled at Rachel and fingered one of her ginger ringlets. "But I think you're prettier. What about her?"

"Um…she used to work for this big rich family back in Ireland…the Fowls…maybe you've heard of them…"

Alarm was starting to grow in his green eyes. "Fowl as in Artemis Fowl the Second?"

"Yes," Rachel whispered.

Percy stood up and paced the room. "Fowl's a criminal mastermind. He's held Irish and British demigods hostage, demanding money and information. I'm not sure that he works for Kronos, but I wouldn't be surprised if he does. Why is Juliet here? Is she running away from him?"

"No, she just thinks she serves a better purpose here." Rachel paused, wondering how to word this delicately. "Actually, Percy, one reason Dad hired Juliet is that she's a top-grade martial artist. He…wants her to protect me from you."

"Why? Do I really look that…bad?"

"Yes!" she chuckled. "You're so dangerous, you make Fang and Jace and Alec look like pink Peeps bunnies in comparison. If I were a dad, I wouldn't trust you with my daughter for two minutes. I'd probably sic Juliet on you too."

"Well, she's not doing her job. I came in and she was watching some wrestling event on your giant flat-screen. She looked up when she heard me open the door. When she saw me she told me you were upstairs. I felt her looking at me strangely as I went up, but she didn't pursue me."

"She knows you don't mean any harm…and she thinks you're pretty hot. However, before you leave, maybe you should tell her who you are and what you're about. I'm sure she'll be able to help."

"Is she a half-blood?"

"She's a mortal like me. Celestial bronze passes right through her."

"Then what use would she be? I get that she's a black belt and whatever, but we've got several good fighters already."

Rachel got up, close enough to whisper. "Juliet has connections to the faerie world, Percy."

They looked out the window onto the street. Alec and Jace were gone—at least, they couldn't be seen, even by the keen eyes of Percy and Rachel.

"Connections to the faerie world?" Percy prompted.

"You know about faeries, then?"

"Of course. Pretty much every supposedly mythological character exists somewhere."

"So are unicorns real too?"

"Yep."

"Vampires? Werewolves?"

"Unfortunately. We half-bloods have to kill them sometimes."

"Zombies?"

"Yes. Their natural habitat is south of us, though."

"Undead mummies?"

"Jace and Alec think there aren't, but I'm not convinced. The Egyptian gods are real, and I'm sure they resurrect dried-up pharaohs to terrorize people on a regular basis."

Rachel giggled suddenly.

"What's funny about that?" Percy asked.

"I'm just picturing Jace and Alec and Alec's horrible sister Isabelle getting chased by a mummy through the sewer tunnels."

"I'll try to contact those Kane siblings and see if they can pull that off," he chuckled.

"Cool. Do you think—if Juliet and her friends were able to get the fey world on our side—that'd be a good thing, wouldn't it?"

"Depends. If they were truly on our side, that'd be great. But I wouldn't trust the faeries I've met as far as I could throw them."

Skillet's "Hero" started playing from a tinny speaker in Percy's hip pocket. He took out his cell phone and hit the answer button. "Hello? Hey! Everything okay?...ah. I'll be right down. See you there."

He hit the end button.

"Who was that?" Rachel asked.

"Beckendorf. He thinks he's had a breakthrough with the Greek fire, and he wants me to help him test it in the water. I'd better go."

"Well, good luck."

"Thanks. See you soon."

"Bye."

He yanked his hoodie back on. Then he pulled her close and hugged her. "I'm not gonna let anyone or anything hurt you, Rachel Elizabeth Dare."

Slowly they let go of each other, blushing, embarrassed to meet the other's gaze but afraid not to. Percy tucked a strand of Rachel's hair behind her ear. Then he turned and left the room.

Rachel stood at the window and waved him goodbye.

Although curiosity and worry about Fang's blog was eating her up, she figured she should probably get out of her room, away from the computer screen, away from the window the Nephilim boys had used to spy on her.

She came downstairs just in time to see George Blackwood rushing out of her dad's office.

"What's the matter, sir?" Juliet Butler asked as she pulled his coat off a hook and threw it around his shoulders.

Mr. Blackwood's eyes were huge and round in disbelief. It was a horrible sight for Rachel. He was her dad's business partner and golf buddy. She'd known him since she was a little girl. In all that time, she had never once seen him display any emotion.

"I just got the call from some nun in Arizona. My brother's house burned down, and he and his wife died. Now I've got to fly out to Indiana for his funeral. And my other brother and I have to decide who's gonna take the two kids."

"I'm so sorry, sir. How old are the children?"

"The girl is fifteen and the boy is twelve, or maybe it's the other way around. I hope Chris will take them. My teenage stepdaughter is more than trouble enough."

He rushed out the door. Rachel saw him stand on the curb and hail a taxi.

Against her will her eyes watered.

"Rachel, are you alright?" Juliet asked. "You look like you're about to cry."

Rachel rubbed her eyes. "Yeah. I used to be really good friends with George's stepdaughter, Amy. But since I met Percy and—and all this stuff started happening, we've grown apart. I don't know why or how it happened. But Amy hates me now. She'll make a face or a dirty finger sign if she sees me on the street now. So will Clary Fray. The Gaunt twins no longer trust me. I've completely lost touch with Mark Dimon and Bobby Pendragon. Simon Lewis doesn't even email me asking for band name suggestions anymore."

"How sad," Juliet responded. "I had some friends back in Ireland. It was very painful to leave them. But I can't imagine living in the same city and everything as your friends, and they're still so separate from you."

George Blackwood looked over his shoulder, quizzically, perhaps a bit worriedly, at something the girls couldn't see. Then he climbed into the cab and was driven away.

Rachel remembered the husband-and-wife geneticist team Fang "had a lead on." Wasn't the man's last name Blackwood?

This thing had just gotten even more convoluted.

She raised her eyes slowly from the black-and-white checkered tiles, feeling someone watching her.

A pair of dark blue eyes and a pair of yellow eyes, belonging to two handsome lads in black clothes standing on the front stoop and peering through the glass in the door.

When Jace caught Rachel's gaze he gave her that psycho smile that was known to give certain demigods nightmares.

"They're quite attractive, but they don't look very nice." Juliet observed. "Percy's friends?"

Rachel thought for a moment. "Let's call them Percy's frenemies."

Alec rang the doorbell primly.

"Shall I let them in?" Juliet asked.

Jace started making faces at Rachel.

She turned her face pointedly. "Yes. I think I know how to deal with them."


	3. Prologue Pt III: Alec

PROLOGUE, SCENE THREE

Alec felt a strange apprehension as he watched the businessman leave the Dare mansion. From across the street he picked up the man's grief and confusion, an abnormal amount of emotion for his type. Also, his readings weren't entirely human.

"And Jackson has been gone for…ten minutes," stated Jace, looking at his wristwatch. "Let's pay Miss Dare a visit."

Alec shook his head. "Maybe we should just go home. I've got the feeling that once we've gone in there, the game will change, and we won't know where to stand anymore. Besides, I'm freezing and my butt is soaked."

"You didn't have to sit on the snow," Jace returned. "You could've squatted on your heels, like I did."

"And you've been griping for half an hour about how your feet hurt."

"Look, Alec, I know your intuition is usually right, but sometimes we have to take risks, y'know? Whatever Rachel Dare is and whatever she might be doing, we've probably dealt with worse."

Alec sighed. He couldn't help but wonder if Jace was just interested in chasing Rachel while Percy was away, or maybe he was eying that blond butler girl they'd seen helping the distressed businessman out the door.

Poor Alec was very confused when it came to boys and girls.

The two of them stood up from where they'd been crouching in the bushes in the little park. They easily vaulted the wrought-iron gate and strode across the street.

Once reaching the other side, they vaulted the Dares' wrought-iron gate and swaggered up to the front stoop—or rather, Jace was swaggering and Alec was trying to look like he was swaggering.

Shaking his shaggy black hair out of his eyes, he could see a redhead and a blond standing close and talking sadly, their eyes on the floor.

The redhead—that was the infamous Rachel—looked up and straight at them. The greenness of her eyes frightened Alec a bit. They were a bluer, colder, green than Percy Jackson's, more jade than emerald. He'd never seen a mundane with eyes so colorful before.

_I wonder if she really is human, _he thought, _or perhaps she's a new class of demon that can get past even the most perceptive shadow-hunters, like me._

Jace caught Rachel's eye and leered at her.

The blond leaned toward Rachel and asked her something. Rachel didn't answer right away. The cold wind cut through Alec's black jeans, and he rang the doorbell as nonchalantly as he could.

The blond asked another question.

Jace, still staring in, started making faces at the girls. As a young child, he'd mastered the art of distorting one's features into a mask of terror. Even now, if Jace made a face like that too late at night, it gave Alec nightmares (nothing he'd ever confess to).

Rachel looked pointedly away.

The blond girl opened the door. "Hello, gentlemen," she said in a charming Irish accent. Suspicion glittered in her turquoise eyes, or was it just her eyeshadow? "What are you here for?"

"We're selling Girl Scout cookies!" said Jace gleefully.

Alec smacked his forehead.

"Uh huh," said Rachel, not amused. "Come in. I know why you came."

She and her friend led the boys into the living room.

"So you're Alec and you're Jake, right?" She sat down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. The two boys settled on the couch facing her.

"I'm Jace, not Jake. The _c _is soft."

"So is your head," Alec muttered.

"What was that?" His friend turned on him.

"Nothing."

"I'm Rachel," said their host.

"We knew that already," Jace shot back.

"My friend is Juliet Butler," she continued.

"May I take your coats?" asked the young Irishwoman.

"You may," said Jace, smirking at her flirtatiously as he removed his black jacket. Alec cringed. He hated situations like this.

He shrugged off his own black hoodie and handed it to Juliet.

Rachel smiled when she saw the t-shirt he was wearing underneath. "I love Florence and the Machine!" she exclaimed.

Despite himself, Alec smiled tentatively back at her. "Me too."

Juliet disappeared to hang up their jackets somewhere warm.

"To business," drawled Jace, putting his wet boots on Rachel's dad's highly expensive mahogany coffee table. "Miss Dare, we understand you've had some adventures with a fellow named Percy Jackson."

"That's true," replied Rachel assertively. "And it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I didn't say it was. However, you are aware that Mr. Jackson is a demigod, 'half-blood' in the common speech, the progeny (or so he tells us) of a Greek god—Poseidon, Lord of the Seas."

"I've known about that for a long time now."

"And you know that demigods are not known for their honesty. How do you know that Percy is on the right side?"

"How do I know you guys are on the right side?" she inquired.

Juliet returned and sat down in the other armchair across the coffee table. Alec had figured she must be some kind of servant to the Dare family, but Rachel didn't seem to mind her sitting among them as an equal.

Jace unsheathed one of his many daggers. "Look at the edge of this blade," he said. "See how it's stained black? That's demon blood—or monster blood, as your boyfriend would put it. We are Nephilim. Our sole purpose for existing is to kill evil creatures."

"Hmm," said Rachel sweetly. "I thought your sole purpose for existing was magically sneaking into bars when you're underage and hitting on the daughters of Athena."

"Last I checked, the daughters of Athena don't mind."

_I've never hit on a daughter of Athena! _Alec thought indignantly. Annabeth was cute, sure, but she was totally not worth the fight. And Jace was cuter.

"Then why did Annabeth Chase ask Charles Beckendorf and the rest of the Hephaestus cabin to attack your abandoned-church hideout with a flamethrower?"

"Do you Nah filly fellows kill faeries, by any chance?" interrupted Juliet.

Jace winked at her. "Only when they misbehave."

Juliet nodded, looking troubled. Alec wondered what she cared about faeries. Her readings were solidly mundane, just like Rachel's.

These clear-sighted mundies made Alec terribly nervous.

"Ladies," continued Jace, "we Nephilim would like to know what the demigods have been up to lately."

"Why don't you go down to their little Camp on the island and check?" Juliet asked. "Everyone who can See knows it's there."

"We can't get in," said Alec. "We've tried. If a shadow-hunter or a down-worlder or anything gets within a hundred feet of their border, the dragon wakes up and spews fire at you until you leave. Izzy and Jace can never get close enough to slay the thing, and my arrows have no effect on it. We'd much rather get the information we need here. Do you know Nico di Angelo, son of Hades?"

"Yes," said Rachel cautiously. "What about him?"

Alec leaned forward, cracking his long thin white knuckles. "I've intercepted a few 'Iris messages' between him and your boyfriend."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the many devices he used to record paranormal sounds. To the untutored observer's eye, it would look like an ordinary iPod—and Alec used it as such when he wasn't on a mission.

"What's the name of that device?" Juliet asked suddenly.

"Mnemosyne 12. It's a European make. Very high-quality."

"It's an _Irish_ make," she specified. "Artie designed it."

"Artie?"

"My old boss, Artemis Fowl the Second."

"_The_ Artemis Fowl? The teenage mob genius?" Alec asked.

"We are so going to interrogate you about that later," Jace snickered. "In the meantime, Alec, play the stupid recording already."

Alec hit a button.

There was a momentary shrieking noise.

"It always does that when I turn it on," he explained. "Your parents aren't home, are they, Rachel?"

"They are, but they'll just think Percy's playing guitar for me. He does that sometimes."

Then the device played back a teenage boy's voice: Percy's.

"I'm sorry, Nico, but this is one bridge I'm not gonna cross. There must be another way."

"I'm afraid not," returned a younger boy whose voice was like mist curling around a tombstone. "Either you take the plunge, or we all plunge into Tartarus."

"Clearly you don't understand the danger. If you like this idea so much, why don't you do it yourself?"

"I won't be of age for another four years, and by then it will be too late. You know that."

"What about those guys who hack into people's minds while they're asleep? Exorcists? Mages? Prophets? _Someone_ who could get Luke back into Luke and drive Granddad away?"

Alec had never heard the word _granddad _used like that before. Percy said it as if it were a curse, as if saying it too loud might get him struck down by lightning.

"We don't have time to try those things," returned Nico. "Take heart, Percy. There will be someone to anchor you. Then you'll come out invulnerable, and we might stand half a chance."

"But—"

"You don't have to give me an answer right now. But I will expect one soon. Good evening, Percy. Have a nice time with Annabeth at the movies. Just remember the fate of us all rests on your shoulders and make a responsible decision."

The tape ended.

"Fascinating," Jace remarked. "Would either of you two ladies care to explain any of that? What's the 'plunge' that Jackson's so afraid to take?"

"Who's Luke?" added Alec. "And who's Granddad?"

"I'm as confused as you are," Juliet confessed. "Help us out here, Rachel."

Rachel opened her mouth to answer—

Her eyes shut tightly, and she lowered her face into her hands, whimpering.

"Another headache?" Juliet asked. She hopped to Rachel's side.

Alec came over, putting the recording device back in his pocket and taking out a small plastic bottle. "I always carry ibuprofen. Take one." Juliet ran out of the room and came back with a glass of water.

Jace came up to Alec and hissed in his ear: "Why do you carry a Mundie painkiller around?"

"Uh…in case we ever meet a Mundie in need," Alec whispered back, knowing it was a lame, uncharacteristic excuse.

He couldn't tell Jace about the dreams.

Rachel took an ibuprofen tablet with a big gulp of water. "Thanks everyone, I'm okay. I've just been having these blackouts lately…and with the blackouts come highly disturbing visions."

Juliet and the boys sat back down. "Pray continue," Jace prompted. "Did you have a vision just now?"

Rachel nodded.

"Tell us," requested Juliet. "I think once we figure out what we're fighting for and fighting against, we'll find out we're all on the same side."

With faltering breath and a sip of water, Rachel resumed. "I saw a city that looked like it was made of glass…"

Alec and Jace exchanged a glance. _Idris, _Alec thought. _How does she know about it?_

"…and in this city I saw a white tree and a black tree branching out of the same trunk. It was night, and the city was on fire. There was this boy in tattered clothing running through the flames, carrying a manila folder next to his heart as though his life depended on it. Someone was chasing him, but I couldn't see them through the smoke."

"Describe the boy," suggested Jace. "What sort of creature was he? Nephilim, perhaps?"

"He might have been one of you guys, I guess. He was really tall and pale and thin and he had long black hair."

"Sounds like Alec."

Rachel shook her head. "It wasn't, trust me. This guy could pass for a girl. When I say his hair was long, I mean it was, like, past his waist. He had freckles all over and bony elbows and really was not that attractive. Anyway.

"A giant raven flew out of the tree and tried to get the boy to stop. But he shooed the raven away and kept running. Suddenly they were here in New York, not in the glass city. The people chased the boy to the Williamsburg Bridge. They got in a fight and he fell off."


	4. I: The Burning

_"If thou beest not immortal, look about you; security gives way to conspiracy."~_William Shakespeare, _Julius Caesar, _Act II, Scene II

ACT I / LEVEL ONE

Chapter I: The Burning.

_Speaker: Sarah._

Smoke was everywhere that night. In my dreams I ran through city streets and shopping malls and between library shelves, looking for something I couldn't remember when I woke up. But no matter where I went, the smoke followed me.

They must have sneaked up on me, because through the smoke I felt something cold and sharp against the nape of my neck. Turning around I saw them, and knew I had felt the tip of his sword. I had what they wanted, and there was no way I would give it to them. But I was cornered on a huge bridge where cars went past at the speed of light in both directions. Below the bridge a fat, torrid river went its way just as fast. The cityscape on the other side of the bridge was sending too much light into the night sky, turning it a garish but somehow intriguing pink. The sun was setting. A horrible choice was before me.

Clutching it in my hands, I hoisted myself onto the railing and jumped. It felt both slow and fast as I fell, fell, fell towards the water, fell into the waking world.

Who were they? Why were they trying to kill me? What did I have that they wanted, and why was it so important that they not get it?

I don't know.

At first I thought I was still dreaming. The odor of smoke lingered. I turned on my bedside lamp, hoping it could break the nightmare. But the light only made it worse.

I could see now that my bedroom was full of black smoke. I staggered to the door coughing, with stinging, watering eyes.

Flames were spreading down the hallway.

Clearly I didn't have time to ask how it happened. I just ran into my brother's room, crying "Ron! Ron! Wake up! There's a fire!" Ron awoke at once.

Our old wise cat came meowing fearfully toward us on his long thin unstable grey legs. Ron scooped him up in his arms and ran downstairs, saying "I'm gonna call 911."

The smoke was doing a number on my eyes, not to mention my respiratory system. I fought my way to the other end of the upstairs hall, feeling that the heat would kill me.

The door was locked. Why? In all my fifteen years of life, my parents had never locked their bedroom door at night. They were always there if Ron or I needed them.

"Mom! Dad! Unlock! Wake up! The house is burning!"

I shouted and struggled with the doorknob for what seemed like hours. My throat was so hoarse I doubted I'd ever be able to speak again. Eventually I gave up on the lock and flung myself against the door with all the meager force in my body. But apparently nothing could open that door.

Suddenly I felt Ron's hand on my shoulder. "Sarah! The Fire Department is on its way," he said in a shaking voice. "We should get outside. Come on!"

"But Mom and Dad are still in there! We can't just leave them!"

"No, come with me! There's no chance." He paused. I saw his tears reflected in the hellish light. Then he whispered the words that changed everything: "They're probably already dead."

He was right. If they were still alive, wouldn't they have at least tried to get out? No one could sleep through all this…unless they would never wake up.

And if Ron and I stayed here much longer, we'd probably die too. Tonight was the end of Mom and Dad; it didn't have to be the end of us.

We ran out of the house and into the scraggly yard. The stunted vegetation hurt my bare feet, but all things considered I hardly noticed. Hopi sat waiting for us with his tail curled around him. The cat's yellow eyes glowed sadly. He knew what was happening.

First I ran to the chicken coop next to the house and flung the door open wide. The hens flapped out frantically, some of them already burning from crest to wingtip to talon.

Then my brother and I stood there watching the flames devour our home until I think we both passed out.

When the firefighters arrived, I wonder what they made of what they saw: an ancient cat and two unconscious kids in their pajamas in front of a house that was more of a fireball now, a dying star that fell to Earth, a portent of doom in the wintry desert night.


	5. II: The Aftermath

II. The Aftermath

I woke in an unfamiliar room—with dingy grey walls and dingy grey bare wooden floorboards. I lay on a thin hard mattress, covered by musty-smelling cotton sheets and an ancient-looking homemade afghan. The room was narrow; Ron slept on an identical bed across the floor from me with Hopi snuggled by his head. About nine feet from the footboards of our beds, a grimy window let in the dull white light of a cloudy January day in Brownsville, AZ, a town too small to fit on any map.

We didn't live in town. Our house was a good two miles from Brownsville. My parents were too paranoid to live any closer, too scared of seventy people in a dust-drenched cluster of trailers and leftover buildings from the Westward Expansion.

So how did Ron and Hopi and I wind up in this sad little attic?

And why was I awake and Ron still asleep? He liked to get up early; I liked to sleep in. Mom nicknamed us Dawn Boy and Twilight Girl (at least, until rumor reached us of a certain vampire romance novel).

_I must still be dreaming_, I thought. _I wish I could wake up. This dream is disturbing. The house burned down. Mom and Dad died. _

That couldn't be true.

I slid my legs off the bed, the floorboards cold and rough against the soles of my bare feet.

A knock came at the door. Disoriented, worry gathering mass like a snowball in my mind, I stumbled over and answered it.

"I'm so sorry, Sarah," said Sandra Red Coyote Johnson.

Sandra was a friendly woman of about sixty-seven years who ran the general store in town. Her silver hair was always braided down her back, falling through the ponytail hole in the Boston Red Sox baseball cap she never took off (her late husband, a schoolteacher, came from Boston and he'd been a huge fan; Sandra wore the cap to honor his memory. We knew the lives of most of Brownsville's residents, but my parents never let them find anything out about us). Sandra's mouth contained all of five rotting teeth and she smelled strongly of cigarettes. Her voice was like tectonic plates scraping at each other's edges. Still, she had a good sense of humor and a warm heart. Ron was a bit afraid of her, but I liked to call her a friend.

"Good morning, Mrs. Johnson," I said. "What's happened? Where are we?"

"You're upstairs at the rectory of St. Mary's. I offered to take you two but I don't have the room."

"Ok, but why are we here at all? Why aren't we home? Where're our parents?"

Sandra reached up—she was at least four inches shorter than me, but I'm a very tall girl—and patted my shoulder. "Oh, sweetie, your house burned to the ground last night. Your mom and dad…well, they've…they've passed on."

My lungs gave up all their breath and I had to gulp or I might've passed out. "So it's true," I whispered. "It wasn't a dream."

Words have a strange power. If you just hear something without repeating it, it remains outside you. But once you verbalize it, you swallow some inestimably small part of it, and it solidifies, fitting itself into your reality.

That was my reality now. Ron and I were orphans. Our house was in ruins.

Where did we go from here?

On some level I wanted to cry, or deny it, or throw a rock through the window, or shout curses into the heavens, but I knew none of that would do any good. It couldn't rebuild the house. It couldn't resurrect my parents.

_Stay calm, Sarah,_ I told myself. Let's_ see what will happen next. The people in this town are good. They won't let anything bad happen to you. _

Sandra produced a big black trash bag from behind her back. "These are some clothes that my boys outgrew years ago. Hopefully you and your brother will both find something that fits. There aren't any girls' clothes—"

"You know that's fine with me," I reminded her. Given the choice, I never wear girls' clothing. It makes me feel vulnerable, for some reason. Boys' clothing gives me a strange feeling of security.

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Johnson," I added. "It's really too kind of you."

"Child, you know you can call me Sandra, and you need all the kindness you can get right now. I'm happy to contribute any way I can." She handed the bag to me and left, saying over her shoulder, "Sister will make you breakfast when she wakes up."

**...**

Sandra had a son named Thom, who was three years older than me, but we looked and dressed so much alike we were frequently mistaken for each other. The patched-up jeans I yanked on now had probably been his once.

I found myself black knee socks and a pair of hiking boots, still in reasonably good condition. There was a dark green fleece hoodie that fit me well enough. And there was a battered t-shirt, which Sandra herself had likely worn decades ago, that I could not resist. It showed an eagle with a tomahawk in its mouth and over this the words "Custer Died for Your Sins."

Ron woke up about half an hour later. Sister Agnes Rose was cooking sausage and scrambled eggs in her tiny kitchen. Breakfast would be ready in five minutes, she'd told me.

I had taken my hair out of its braids and was brushing it thoroughly, on the bed I'd woken up in. The repetitive motion of my hands and the swishing sound my hair made going through the bristles soothed me somehow.

My brother was awakened by Hopi getting up from his spot by Ron's head, stretching, and clambering over to my lap on the other side of the room.

The cat mewed in sorrow. I scratched him behind his ears. "We'll be ok, buddy. We'll be ok," I murmured, knowing I needed to convince myself as much, if not more, than him.

"Sarah?" Ron asked confusedly. Pulling himself groggily to a seated position, he shook his head to clear his long sandy bangs from his eyes. "Where are we?"

"In the attic of the rectory." I know priests usually live in rectories, not nuns, but Father Blanchard stayed at his dying mother's house anyway, so Sister Agnes Rose could remain here for now.

"So there was a fire last night? I didn't dream it up?"

"I'm sorry, brother. It was real."

"Which means Mom and Dad are…with the ancestors."

"Mm-hm." That was all I could manage.

Ron flung himself face down on his bed. "How could God allow this, Sarah?"

"I don't know, brother. But remember how Mom always told us not to take disasters like this personally? Bad things happen to good people and bad people alike, just like good things do. Have faith. We'll get through this somehow."

Suddenly I understood how it must feel to be a parent. With Mom and Dad gone, I was the head of the family. I needed to look out for Ron and Hopi in addition to myself.

But I was just fifteen.

Could I manage it?

**...**

"The fire was caused by a lightning strike," said Sister Agnes Rose somberly as she scooped scrambled eggs onto our plates. She was about eighty-five and stood roughly four feet high, with a windy little voice. One eye remained blue; the other was entirely swathed in the white cocoon of a cataract. "Nothing could be salvaged."

"What about our chickens?" I inquired. "I flung open the henhouse door, but some of them were already on fire. Did any of them make it?"

She shook her shorn white head. "My heart goes out to you, dears."

Ron pecked at the food disinterestedly. "I don't remember any thunder or lightning last night."

"Neither do I,"I concurred, "but given everything else going on, we were probably too distracted to notice."

"Poor things," she murmured. "Father Blanchard called your uncle George and he'll pay for your airplane tickets."

"Airplane tickets?" I asked. "Where are we going?"

"Your parents had told Father and the medicine man—whatever his name is—"

"Joseph Douglass? The spiritual leader back at Hotevilla?"

"Yes, him. Apparently your mother wanted a Hopi burial here, and your father wanted a Catholic burial in his hometown in Indiana."

"Can Sarah and I go to Mom's funeral?" Ron asked.

"That was strange too. Her exact words were 'only at the most dire need let Sarah and Ron set foot on the reservation.'"

"Do you know why?"

"I'm afraid I don't, honey. I can guess, though. Something dark and terrible must've happened to your mom when she was growing up, perhaps something so awful she couldn't tell anyone about it, and she associated it with her birthplace. At any rate, she didn't want you to go there for her funeral. But we'll have a wake for her here at St. Mary's, and of course you can attend that. Maybe downstairs at the rummage sale I can find some nice used clothes for you to wear."

**...**

A day later we stood by the side of our mother's casket. Sister had found me a black knit dress with long tight sleeves and a skirt that would've gone down to a normal-sized girl's mid-calves but stopped right below my knees. The stockings had holes in the knees and at the heels and toes, and the Mary-Jane shoes hurt my big boyish feet, but that was the least of my concerns right now.

Looking down at my mother's corpse, you would've guessed she'd died in her sleep—which was technically true—but you never would've suspected she'd also burned to death. She was beautiful in a strong, subtle way; she was as tall as me (five-foot-nine-inches), slender but tough. I'd also inherited her thick, pin-straight, jet-black hair. Both Ron and I had the shape of her eyes, large with a catlike slant, though ours were brown and hers were black. Her skin was like polished copper, and Dad was a pale, freckled Irishman; my complexion was closer to Dad's and Ron's to Mom's but both of us had Dad's freckles.

A few people turned up from Brownsville or from Hotevilla on the reservation, but most of them were mere acquaintances. Mom had no living family that we knew of. Dad's family was huge, but most of them didn't know Mom. Uncle Chris' ex-wife Lena wanted to come, but she couldn't make it. We'd see her at Dad's funeral in Orson, anyway.

There were questions I'd wanted to ask my parents, especially Mom, but from last night forward I could ask them of the heavens and get no reply.

Right now all I could do was keep one arm around Ron's shoulder and soothe him as he wept. Tears leaked from my eyes slowly, but some reason I never sob. Mom always cried silently too.

One attendee of the wake I didn't recognize.

He was about my age, tall and athletic in tattered clothes, with golden hair, handsome but beat-up. He spoke to no one, and whenever Father, Sister, or Mr. Douglass looked at him he visibly jumped. I could understand being a little edgy around Mr. Douglass if you didn't' know him (he was about six-feet-six-inches high with a face like the wind-carved rock formations on the edge of the horizon) or possibly Father Blanchard (who had a stern jaw covered in close-cropped grey beard like a relative of Aragorn's) but how could sweet little Sister frighten anyone? Even the crucifixes and images of Jesus and Mary seemed to make the boy skittish.

"So Dr. Rebekah Waters is dead," he murmured to himself as he stood near the casket.

"Did you know her?" I asked him softly.

He looked up, startled, as though he hadn't noticed how close he stood to Ron and me. Behind his bangs, his eyes were bluer than a chlorinated pool, bluer than the sky of a clear summer afternoon. I'd never seen eyes that color before. Something was very unusual about this lad. I had the feeling that somehow I'd met someone like him before, and known them well.

"I didn't know her," he said, "but I was told she and her husband might be able to help me. Obviously I came too late."

"What did you need their help with?"

"It's not safe to speak of it here. Did you know her?"

"She was my mother."

"Oh. I'm sorry." After a pause he ventured, "Is your dad still around? Patrick Blackwood?"

"He's gone too."

Another uncomfortable pause. "If this makes you feel any better," he ended it by saying, "I kinda understand your pain. My parents are dead too. At least, my mother is. I'm not sure about my dad."

"I'm sorry. What's your name?"

"Jason Grace. Who are you?"

"I'm Sarah Blackwood, and this is my brother Ron." We shook hands. "Do you live around here?"

"No. Just passing through."

We stood there a few seconds longer. Mr. Douglass' eye shifted suspiciously in Jason's direction again.

"I'd better run," my new acquaintance whispered, and in a blink he'd left the funeral home.

"Did he remind you of someone?" Ron asked. "'Cause he seemed really familiar to me. Not like we'd seen him before, but somebody very much like him."

"I know what you mean, brother. I felt the same way."

I knew who Jason Grace reminded me of. The other boy had the same jumpy mannerisms, the same implied skepticism of religion and mistrust of adults. He'd had an unnatural eye color too—green as emerald. There was some indescribable similarity in the cut of their faces.

The other boy had once been my best friend.

But it wouldn't do to mention him to Ron. My brother remembered very little of that tortured year, the one year we'd ever attended a school outside our own home. You couldn't talk about Percy without talking about the day the water pipes exploded, and the gang of bullies who were really demons.

We had enough darkness on our minds right now.


	6. III: The Heffleys

III. The Heffleys.

Ron and I rose tired from our seats. "MY EARS ARE NUMB," he shouted. "WHEN WILL THEY GET BACK TO NORMAL?"

My ears were fine. I heard the pilot announce that everyone should reclaim their baggage at the back of the plane. Other than us, there were only about ten passengers. I surmised that not many travelled to Orson, Indiana.

A flight attendant picked up Hopi's cat carrier and handed it to me. A deathly yowl streamed from inside. Poor Hopi. He was already so old, older than me. I wondered how long he'd last. _Best not to think about that, _I thought.

Once inside the airport and sufficiently checked for weapons, we sat in a waiting area, passing what seemed like hours patting each other's shoulders and putting our index fingertips through the bars of Hopi's cage to touch his wet grey nose.

"God, can't you get that animal to stop meowing?" snapped the woman sitting next to me. "Make it shut up!"

Ron turned his red-tinged eyes on her. "_YOU_ SHUT UP!" he cried. Apparently his ears hadn't popped yet. He was still yelling, and several people swiveled their irritated faces in our direction.

I wanted to punch the lady's teeth out, but that would not be socially acceptable.

"C'mon, bro," I whispered, laying a hand on Ron's arm. "We can move."

"Kids today," muttered a man into his newspaper as we walked by.

Outside the sun was beginning to set. Snow makes everything look so desolate. The cold was shocking. Even the church ladies in the Brownsville AZ area didn't have much in the way of warm winter coats. Ron and I wore the worn-out clothes Sandra had given us.

We had nothing left in this world but those clothes on our backs, Hopi, and each other.

**...**

"You must be Sarah and Ron!" exclaimed a kindly female voice. We raised our heads from the issue of _Smithsonian _we'd been disinterestedly perusing.

There stood a middle-aged woman carrying a little boy; a grey-haired man I guessed was her husband, a skinny boy about Ron's age with a sloppy haircut, and a scary-looking fellow my age or slightly older.

"We are…" I replied cautiously.

"I'm Susan Heffley," she continued. "This is my husband, Frank. He was a cousin of your father's."

"I'm Manny," lisped the youngest child, who couldn't have been older than five.

"Yes, dear," said his mother. "And these are Rodrick"—indicating the scary teenager with her hand—"and Gregory"—this referring to the middle brother.

"Hi," muttered Greg. Rodrick mumbled something unintelligible. I squinted at him. Was he wearing eyeliner?

"We're so sorry about your parents," said Frank, shaking our hands. "We're your ride to Gammie's house. Is this all the luggage you have?"

**...**

"Have you two ever stayed at Gammie's before?" Susan asked as we drove through the mind-numbing Orson streets.

We were all packed into their dingy minivan: Susan driving, Frank in the passenger seat, Ron and I in the back, the three brothers in the middle row. Cold wind seemed to sneak at us from between cracks in the car windows and doors. I'd placed my arm across Hopi's carrier so he wouldn't slide off the seat. He had stopped yowling by now, choosing instead to sleep away his sorrow.

"WHO'S THIS 'GAMMIE' YOU KEEP MENTIONING?" asked Ron, rubbing frenetically at the shoulders of his thin fleece jacket. His ears _still _hadn't popped, so he was still shouting. I winced, wondering if there was any home remedy for airplane ears, and how easily I could access such a thing around here.

"She's our great-grandma," Greg explained.

"What's her real name?" I asked. Greg and Rodrick looked at each other and shrugged.

"Her weal name ith Gammie, thtupid!" chuckled Manny from his car seat.

"Manfred Heffley!" his mother scolded. "We don't call people stupid. It's not nice. Her name is Eleanor Heffley, Sarah."

"What was her maiden name?"

"Rackham, I think."

"Did she have a sister named Alice?"

"Yes! I met Alice when Frank and I were married. She was a very sweet and gracious woman, but around the time Rodrick was born she started showing Alzheimer's symptoms, so Chris and George put her in the nursing home, and eight years ago she died. She had three sons, though, and one of them never came to any family gatherings. What was his name again, Frank?"

"That was my cousin Patrick," said Frank absently. "Pat Blackwood. Secretive kind of guy. Really smart. Different from the other boys. He ran away to Europe when he was fourteen. Haven't seen him since Alice's funeral."

"Alice Rackham—or Alice Blackwood—was our grandmother," I said.

"So you're Chris' kids, then?" Susan inquired. "He's out now, of course, but he was married to a woman before. Never knew they had children."

"We're not Chris' kids," I replied. "In fact, I've never set eyes on either Uncle Chris or Uncle George. Our dad was Patrick."

"Then why didn't he come with you?" asked Frank. "I'm sure his brothers would like to see him again."

"HE _DID_ COME WITH US, TECHNICALLY SPEAKING," said Ron in what was probably supposed to be a mutter but came out as a holler instead.

"Who's the funeral for again?" grumbled Rodrick with one earbud falling out, spilling forth some god-awful specimen of heavy metal. He shot a dirty look at Ron.

"Oh dear, I forgot," his mom sighed.

"Patrick Blackwood," I said.

**...**

Gammie had one of the bigger houses in Orson, but that wasn't saying much. Yet several times a year (whenever a death, birth or wedding occurred) nearly all the branches of the Heffley tree managed to stuff themselves inside it. Only two people would spend the night at a hotel instead: Uncle Chris and his husband Martin, because Gammie didn't approve of gay marriage.

The house was warm at least, though I didn't know whether the heat came from the insulation built into the walls or the insulation of so many people crammed together.

A skinny red-haired man embraced Ron and me tearfully as soon as we had our coats off.

"I just can't believe he's gone," he snuffled. "Haven't seen him in eight years! Pat, why'd you do this to us? Pat?"

Pulling away from him, I could see a resemblance between him and Dad: the hair color, the pale skin, the freckles, the skinny nose, and the large pale blue eyes.

"You must be Uncle Chris." I grabbed his hand and shook it.

"And you must be Sarah and Ron," he replied. "Where's your mom?"

Ron and I exchanged a cautious glance: _Should we tell him now? Or wait awhile? _

"She's back in Arizona," I stated, which was technically true. Her physical remains were in Arizona, at any rate.

"Ah. Martin, George, come here. Do these two have the Rackham face, or do they have the Rackham face?"

"They do indeed!" chimed Martin, who was short and round and rosy-cheeked with thinning hair.

Uncle George shook hands with Ron and me as though we were about to sit in a conference room and discuss this quarter's profits. He had the slim nose and big eyes (what I assumed Uncle Chris meant by "the Rackham face") but his thinning hair was dark brown, and his eyes were hazel. He was a good two inches taller than Uncle Chris; two inches taller also than Dad had been in life.

"George!"called a woman who'd just appeared by his side. She looked about forty, with a toothpaste ad smile and yellow hair that floated like sunshine around her face. "George, are these your niece and nephew? Why didn't you call me?" Turning to us and shaking our hands, she said, "My name is Marissa. I'm your Uncle George's wife. You two will move in with us." She grabbed my left elbow and Ron's right and steered us deeper into the house.

From the only piece of luggage I carried came a piercing cry of distress.

"Watch!" I cried. "The cat! The cat! Watch the cat!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey. What's your cat's name?"

"HOPI," Ron bellowed. Since all the Heffleys were loud enough to begin with, his shouting didn't stand out.

"Interesting name for a kitty. Wasn't your mother Hopi? Or Navajo, or—"

"She was Hopi," I said. "Nine generations back, we supposedly had a Diné ancestor. When I was a toddler—before Ron was born—we had two other cats named Irish and Waspie. Mom and Dad named them because they thought they had characteristics of those nations in their ideal state."

"What nation did 'Waspie' represent?"

"_W_hite _A_nglo-_S_axon _P_rotestant. They stuck the –ie on the end 'cause it sounded cute."

Marissa gestured across the living room, at a blonde girl in red skinny jeans and a hoodie with the word _"Riot!"_ scribbled all over it. Well, some of her hair was turquoise instead of blonde, but you get the idea. "That's my daughter Amy. She's a little older than you"—this directed at me—"you're thirteen, right?"

"Fifteen," I corrected."I'll turn sixteen in July."

"Ah." She eyed my flat chest and narrow hips skeptically. "Amy turns fifteen in March, so I guess she's actually _younger _than you." Now she turned to Ron. "And you're ten, right?"

"_TWELVE_. I TURN THIRTEEN IN OCTOBER."

"Who are you talking with, Marissa?" asked a creaky voice.

Approaching us we saw an old woman in a long black dress and white cardigan, leaning on her cane. Dangly earrings like chandeliers bounced little reflections of light into her white hair, which was tied back in a bun. She had the same blue eyes as Dad and Uncle Chris and (I assumed) Grandma Alice. Apparently it was a Rackham trait.

"Are you Gammie?" I asked, shaking her free hand gently. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

"You must be Patrick's children," said she. Marissa helped her into a nearby chair, a little away from the noise, and then went to see to something in the kitchen. "I can see he raised you polite.

"My eyes aren't as sharp as they used to be," she continued. "Stand closer, girl. Let me have a look at you."

I moved closer to her. She reached out with a white claw of a hand and touched the tip of my one braid. "Remarkable long hair you have, child. And what a color! Black as ink."

"Thank you, ma'am. I got my mother's hair."

"Is it true that your mother was Indian?"

"She was Hopi, ma'am."

"What's your name?"

"Sarah. I was named after my mom's mother."

"That's a good, strong name. Sarah in the Bible was a woman of endurance, nerve, and humor. Just don't laugh at any angels. Step forward, boy. What might your name be?"

"I'M RON, MA'AM. PLEASED TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE."

"You don't have to shout, young man. I'm not quite _that _deaf. Not yet."

I chuckled nervously. "His ears haven't popped from the plane ride yet. Sorry."

"Ron short for Ronald? Or Byron, maybe? My father's brother's name was Ronald."

Ron scowled. "RON SHORT FOR OBERON JAMES."

"James I understand. Your grandfather, my sister's husband, was called James. But where did your parents find the name Oberon, child?"

Turning scarlet he answered, "OBERON IS THE STUPID FAERIE KING IN THIS STUPID SHAKESPEARE COMEDY ABOUT ALL THESE STUPID PEOPLE WHO RUN INTO THIS STUPID FOREST AND GET DRUGGED AND—"

I gave my brother a warning touch to the elbow. "Um, yeah, from a Shakespeare comedy. They always said it meant something else too, but they never got around to telling us."

"Hm," said Gammie. "Well, Oberon James, you strongly resemble your grandmother. My sister had hair like that—brown on the bottom and striped blond on the top, tinted with red when the sun hit it sideways."

"THANK YOU FOR THE COMPLIMENT, MA'AM."

Our great-aunt raised her feeble frame out of the chair. Automatically, thinking of Grandma Sarah, Ron and I each took one of her arms to support her. We walked toward the dining room.

"Where would you like to sit?" I asked.

"Pardon?"asked Gammie. "There are so many people shouting in here. Speak up, girl. I can't hear a word you're saying."

"WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO SIT?" asked Ron. She had no problem hearing him.

"Oh. You needn't holler like that, young man. I always sit at the big black chair at the head of the table."

The chair, elegantly carved and probably even older than Gammie herself, was not hard to find. We eased her into it.

"I'm much obliged to you, Sarah and Oberon James," she stated. "I just wish that your father could've brought you and your mother up to see me and all us Heffleys sometimes. You're very impressive young people—especially compared to certain other descendants in this room." She glanced at various teenagers (Rodrick, Amy, some I hadn't met) as if wondering how the Heffley stock could've sunk as low as they.

**...**

Next morning I pried my tear-soaked pillow off my face. I'd wept silently during the night, long after everyone else had fallen asleep. Cloudy white light poured sluggishly through the window. I was alone in the room I was sharing with a bunch of other girl Heffleys. Someone had laid out the dress, stockings and shoes I'd worn at Mom's wake.

One of the girls put some purple shadow on my eyes. After breakfast they applied it and brushed out my hair. They also "fixed up" Ron, who was borrowing one of Greg's suits. My brother looked great, but I still felt uncomfortable in those clothes, and the makeup made it worse. A beanpole like me needs a pantsuit for such occasions.

We climbed into someone's minivan and drove to the church. The whole way over—a short ride that felt eternal—I stared out the window, _looking_ at boring suburban houses on boring suburban streets without truly _seeing_ them. I made up a mantra and repeated it to myself inside my head: _I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry._

And I didn't.

**...**

St. Stephen's was a small church by most people's standards. But the only church Ron and I had ever been inside was St. Mary's of the Desert back in tiny Brownville, AZ, a church roughly the size of an anthill. Compared with that, St. Stephen's seemed like a cathedral. (Our religious background might be called "unconventional" but that's a story for another time).

Ron and I sat on the end of a pew. On my other side sat Marissa, Lena (Chris' ex-wife), Chris, George, Martin, and Amy. Martin and Chris were both weeping profusely, which was odd in Martin's case, since he's only met Dad once. Lena kept swiping tears from her eyes. Amy's gaze wandered as though she couldn't imagine a more boring way to spend her time.

I looked at the Stations of the Cross, gracefully carved on the walls. My eyes rested on the image of Mary cradling the corpse of her son, wiping some of the gore off his face with the corner of her black veil. Her face could not have been more sorrowful, but no tears were sculpted on her cheek.

Then I looked at my little brother, who was hiding his tears in his hymnal. I wanted to cry too, but he needed me.

I looked back at Mary, captured in her anguish on the wall, and I spoke to her in my mind: _Mother of God, help me to be strong in the face of the ultimate agony, as you were; help me be strong for my brother. Comfort us and guide us to safety. Let us be happy again. Amen. _

Then I looked around the church. The turnout was pretty impressive—ninety-percent Heffleys, with a handful of locals, most of whom had known Dad in his youth: Susan and Frank with their kids, Frank's brother Joe and his family, Gary with his fiancée, Mr. Heck with his wife and three kids, Gammie's brother Arthur…

In a far anterior pew I noticed a guy about my age. He was hard to see at first; he wore black skinny jeans and a black leather jacket and dark glasses and his hair was black, so he blended in with the shadows at the back of the church. No one stood near him. I wondered who he could be. _Probably just a friend of Rodrick's or the other teenagers,_ I told myself. _No one to pay any mind to._

The Heffleys were Presbyterians, but Grampa James was a Catholic and Gramma Alice converted when she married him. Dad had always (in one form or another) practiced the faith he'd been raised in. The Heffleys gave him a Catholic funeral, but you could tell from looking at their eyes that they weren't entirely comfortable in St. Stephen's.

The adults, that is. Most of the kids didn't seem to care. I tried not to resent it. I reminded myself that they didn't know my dad well if they knew him at all.

Ron read Psalm 21. His voice cracked once or twice, but overall he did a very good job. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall want for nothing…"he croaked. Then he looked at me for encouragement. I smiled discreetly at him and mouthed "You're doing all right."

I read the passage from one of St. Paul's letters about Jesus "taking with Him those who have fallen asleep." I'm usually a good reader, but my tongue slipped all over the word of the Lord that day. I just couldn't believe I was standing there, reading this Scripture at my dad's funeral.

**...**

Frosty wind bit through my skirt and stockings in the graveyard.

I saw a tear trickle down Ron's freckled cheek as Dad's coffin lowered. "How you holding up, little brother?" I asked.

He didn't respond. His brown eyes stared unblinking at the grave. They were a grownup's eyes. My twelve-year-old brother was crying like a man. But when I reached for his hand, he took mine and squeezed it.

It had been decided that Ron and I would go back to New York with Uncle George, Marissa and Amy. We would finish this school year homeschooling ourselves. This fall, I would start attending Amy's fancy private school, and Ron would join a similar school for boys. At this point, I was still too numb to worry about any of this. I'm not sure how Ron perceived it.

So there it was. Gramma was dead. Mom was dead. Dad was dead. We couldn't live in Arizona anymore. The end of life as we knew it.

I looked around at the family gathered: Marissa holding George's arm, Chris sobbing and Martin's chubby face creased in sorrow, Lena dropping a bouquet of carnations onto the casket, the rest of the Heffley clan at a discreet distance.

Even further away I saw the goth kid who'd been sitting in the far back of the church. I couldn't say why, but he was beginning to unnerve me.

Amy Porter was staring at the casket almost as intensely as Ron. I caught her eye and smiled at her gratefully, but she rolled her eyes at me and spent the next few minutes looking at her shoes. I'd seen Marissa talking to her this morning. Amy was probably annoyed that we had to move in with her.

When the frigid earth had been piled in and the proper prayers were said, everyone packed in their cars and drove back to the church, where the parishioners had prepared a splendid lunch. Ron and I were the last to turn away.

"Goodbye, Dad," he said.

"Goodbye, Dad," I said.

And we left that place.


	7. IV: Fang

IV. Fang.

"Sarah, look. Who's that?" Ron whispered.

Standing in the corner of St. Stephen's basement was the goth guy who was starting to creep me out.

At the other end of the buffet table from us stood a knot of teenagers: Rodrick, Amy, Sean Donahue, Darren Petersen, and Axl Heck, with Axl's geeky sister Sue trying desperately to join the conversation. I edged closer to them, Ron right behind me. They were happily unaware of us.

"Y'know what I think, gentlemen?" said Axl ceremoniously. "I think it's about time Löded Diper joined forces with Axl and the Axmen. What say you?"

Sean grinned. Darren beat his chest and said "Huh!" like that was a splendid idea. Rodrick nodded curtly.

"What'll you name the band then?" Amy asked.

"How about, 'the Fluffy Bunnies'?" suggested Sue, who was so nerdy she might not have been joking. Everyone ignored her. Poor Sue.

"I'm thinking, 'Axl and the Axes of Death'," continued her brother.

"Let's get away from the axe thing," Rodrick argued."I'm thinking more like 'Satan's Hall of Carnage'."

"Are you sure it's ok to mention Satan in a church, Rodrick?" Sue asked. No one replied. Sue might as well have been the table for all the heed they gave her.

"Excuse me," I cut in.

They stopped talking abruptly. Amy shot me another death glance. A strange light came into the boys' eyes, which for some reason made me a little nervous.

"Yes?" drawled Axl, running his hands through his curly brown hair. "Just _axe_ and I'll see how I can help you."

This conceited fool and his equally conceited, foolish friends annoyed me. I wondered what the kids in New York would be like. Cretins like these? Or monsters like at the Wilderness School?

If only I could've worn the clothes from Sandra. Dressed like that, the boys would've thought I was a boy myself. I would've preferred it that way.

I continued, using all the authority my deep voice and height could offer. "The goth guy in the corner of the room, by the exit. Is he with you?"

"What goth guy?" asked Rodrick, sounding a little confused. They looked in the direction I pointed.

"Oh, him," said Axl dismissively. "I have no idea who that is. Why do you ask?"

"He's _so _hot," Sue whispered.

"Actually, yeah, he _is_ hot," Amy agreed, marking the only time anyone acknowledged Sue Heck's existence for the whole conversation. The boys hadn't paid any attention to Sue's remark but when Amy spoke they all looked a bit annoyed.

The guy took off his shades. His eyes stabbed us like black spears from fifty feet away.

"Why do you ask?" Sean inquired of me.

"He's staring us out of countenance," said Ron gravely.

"Oh my god! He uses words like 'countenance'! He's as bad as Brick!" cried Axl with revulsion.

"Axl!" Sue scolded. "The poor boy just lost his parents! Don't be so mean!"

"Let's go," I told Ron.

We moved to the side of the room and went to our table the other way around, acting like we hadn't seen the stranger.

There was no one at this table save our cousin Greg, who was about the same age as Ron, and Brick, Axl and Sue's little brother. Greg was writing in a composition book, and Brick was reading from a thick, musty tome. Neither of them saw us.

Ron made an admirable attempt at conversation. "I see you're reading Thucydides," he said to Brick. "My sister and I read that." He pointed to me with his thumb.

"Yeah. I like it better than Plato's _Republic_," said Brick. He looked down at his lap and whispered to no one, "Plato's _Republic_."

"We read that too!" Ron exclaimed, but it was no use. We had lost Brick's attention. The _History of the Peloponnesian Wars _put me to sleep as a freshman, so I couldn't imagine how it would interest someone as young as Brick (he looked about nine, maybe even younger). But he was entirely lost to the world. Ron shrugged off Brick's rudeness and we sat down.

"He's still looking at us," he hissed. Obviously this was not in reference to Brick.

I snuck a glance over my shoulder. The goth guy in the corner was now looking pointedly in the opposite direction, the way people do when they don't want you to know they were looking at you a second ago.

Neither of us had eaten much in the past few days. The mere smell of the food was almost intoxicating. We fell to. There were cold cuts and bread and slices of cheese and macaroni & cheese and chicken nuggets and homemade brownies.

The boy in black walked by without a glance at us. He stood at the buffet table and filled up about seven plates. I looked at Ron and chuckled. When you're as sad as we were that day, even the slightest relief can make you laugh. I was about to say, "See? He wasn't looking at us at all—"

Then the guy sat down across from us with all his food and continued staring.

His large eyes were so black you could barely distinguish the iris from the pupil, and there was an intensity to them I had never seen in anyone's eyes before. He had a nice tan, and his lips and nose were well-shaped. His longish black hair was tastefully tousled. Others have rhapsodized at length about his beauty (talking to you, Maximum). I see no need to do so any further. Suffice it to say he was rather comely, and I felt ashamed to notice despite everything.

"You guys are Sarah and Ron Blackwood?" he said.

Ron and I nodded. "We are," I croaked.

"I'm so sorry about your loss," the boy said awkwardly. "My name is Fang." He shook our hands. His hand felt odd in mine—tough, muscled, but very light. He made no acknowledgement of Brick and Greg, but they didn't appear to notice him either.

Then in a blur he emptied one of his plates. I couldn't believe anyone could eat that much that fast. When he finished chewing, he started in on the second plate. He did this very nonchalantly; he didn't even burp.

He stopped suddenly, noticing. "Why are you guys staring at me?"

I said, "Um…do you always eat like that?"

"Yes. I was engineered to eat like that."

Naturally, we assumed that was a figure of speech.

"Then how do you stay so thin?" Ron asked, something like malice glinting in his eyes. (Where had that come from? Maybe I'd just imagined it).

Fang flashed me a great white smile, which was strange, considering I hadn't asked the question. "I burn a lot of calories."

So there was an obscenely good-looking youth who ate like a horse with a scary alias and a suspicious demeanor sitting across the fellowship-hall table from my brother and me at our dad's funeral. I did not like this. There was more to him than met the eye.

"Um, Fang?" I said. "Is…is that your real name?"

"As far as I know or care." Now he was on his fifth plate, and he still looked hungry.

"…ok…are you a Heffley?"

"What's a Heffley?"

Well, that took care of _that_ question.

"Are you part of the congregation at St. Stephen's, then?"

"No. I'm too busy trying to stay alive to go to church."

"Are you from around here?"

"Nope."

Fear was a thin sheet of ice on my viscera. Why? Lowering my voice, I asked, "Then who are you, and how do you know about us?"

"Ron, you said you and your sister read Thucydides' _History_?"

The voice belonged to Brick Heck. Ron turned toward him, visibly relieved. I smiled at Brick and snuck a glance at Fang, who was all tense, ready to either fight or fly.

"Yeah, we did…"

"It's very enjoyable. I'm right at the part where Pericles is giving his famous address to the people of Athens..."

At this moment I did something cowardly. I left the room while "Fang" was distracted.

I ran upstairs and shut myself in the ladies' room. I was either going to cry or vomit or have a nervous breakdown, and I couldn't do any of those things in front of Ron.

Who was this boy in black and how did he know our names? His presence made me feel like I did when I was ten years old, standing on the diving board at Oasis Lake Beach, looking down with anxiety at the faraway water when Leroy Garrett and George McCloskey came up behind me. George said "You're such a coward, Blackwood" and Leroy shoved me into the water. It was a slow, slow descent into twelve feet of cold, thick darkness, darkness that had no boundaries, darkness that swallowed everything. Darkness like how I imagined death, like how I pictured the end of time. Darkness like the eyes of the boy who called himself Fang.

I tried to catch my breath. He might be nothing more than a morbid kid with creepy taste in clothes who liked to socialize at funerals: an annoyance, but not a threat.

Out of habit I reached to where I usually kept my Zune sitting on the waistband of my pants, longing for some soothing music. But I grabbed at nothing. I was wearing a dress from a church rummage sale. My Zune had been destroyed in the fire along with everything else I owned.

Still shivering, I left the restroom and wandered into the sanctuary, trying to compose myself before rejoining my brother.

"Looking for someone?"

The voice issued from the choir loft. I looked up with a start. There had been no one here but me three seconds ago.

Guess who was standing there blending into the shadows.

"Don't be scared," he said. "I think we're on the same side. I have information."

"Good for you," I replied, hoping I sounded fierce enough to deter him.

"Information you need," he continued.

"I doubt that," I shot back, voice shaking slightly.

In response, Fang swung his long legs over the choir loft railing. Then he jumped—

—but he never hit the floor. Huge black feathery wings snapped out of his back and spread wide, holding him aloft. He flew gracefully and slowly around the sanctuary before landing on his feet a yard or so from me. Dull cloudy light came through the stain glass windows in a muted rainbow, throwing purple highlights on his ebon hair…and his raven feathers.

What did this mean? Apparently the fabric between the normal world and whatever lay outside it had been torn.

I didn't believe the story of Lucifer falling from Heaven. Angelology and demonology were distractions, Mom had always said. We were just supposed to do what Jesus told us to: help the poor, respect all life, stand against injustice, make a better society.

I'd always pictured God's angels as supernovae, and their evil counterparts as black holes sucking in everything they encountered. And I thought the general portrayal of angels and fallen angels—as beautiful young men with large bird wings—was stupid; obviously borrowed from the portrayals of Greco-Roman gods, it…did not put me in a spiritual frame of mind.

Yet clearly such a creature stood before me now. My stomach went cold. If Fang were a benevolent spirit, would he be skulking around like this? I doubted it.

Also, he had me trapped. I was alone. Everyone else was downstairs eating.

I did the only thing that made sense at the moment (it didn't in retrospect). Pointing at the wall behind Fang, I cried:

"Behind you! It's Great-uncle Arthur!"

And then I ran like the devil was chasing me.

(This might well have been the case).

Right outside the sanctuary waited a staircase to the belltower. I charged up it now. Good thing I wore Mary-Janes instead of high heels.

All I could think was _Must—get—away—from—scary—guy—with—wings—who—has—been—stalking—us—_

The last time remotely like this had happened to me (nearly five years ago) I had barely escaped with my life.

Snow blew into the belltower, sending soft little darts of cold through my dress. The tower was so small I nearly hit my head on the bell's underside.

I heard footsteps behind me and realized my stupidity once again. I should've run _downstairs_, not _up_. Here the only escape was jumping out the belltower—certain suicide.

"Sarah?" Fang reached out and tapped my shoulder. Whatever he was, his touch felt human enough. I tried to scramble away, but he clasped my forearm with too much strength for such a slender body. Then he leaned close and whispered, "I know why your parents died."


	8. V: Designed

V. Designed.

"Let's go back downstairs," Fang grunted. "Too cold up here."

"Why would I go with you?" I asked carefully.

"Because you want to hear what I have to tell you."

"Actually, I'm not sure about that."

His hand was still closed around my elbow.

"We are not enemies, Sarah," he stated, his fixed unblinking on mine.

With that he steered me back down the stairs. Upon reaching the sanctuary again I wrenched myself from his grasp.

"Who and what are you?" I hissed. I drew myself to my full height—still at least two inches shorter than him—and squared my shoulders. If he wanted to hurt me, I wasn't going down without a fight.

He wriggled his shoulders. I watched his wings, all fourteen feet of them, fold up neatly against his shoulder-blades and retreat into two long slits in the back of his jacket.

"I'm a science experiment," he said at last. "I'm ninety-eight percent human, two percent bird. There are five others like me that I know of—seven, if you count Max's clone and Dylan." He said the name "Dylan" as though it were a curse. "Then there are other mutants with DNA from different species. We were all created to survive the Apocalypse, and breed a race of superhumans after the ordinary people were wiped out. But me and my five friends—the Flock, we called ourselves—we escaped. For a while we were fugitives. Then we found a job with this environmentalist organization called the CSM. You know who they are, right?"

"Yeah, the Coalition to Stop the Madness. I saw an interview with Valencia Martinez on the News Hour."

"That's right. They could only protect us for so long. Now we're on the run again…at least, I'm on the run again. I don't know about the others. Haven't heard about them since I left."

I was tempted to ask why he left his "flock", but I saw profound pain in his eyes and thought it might be better not to ask. Slowly we walked down the aisle between the pews.

"That's not all, though," he continued. "There are other things that can't be explained by science. Things like vampires and werewolves and faeries and Greek gods and every kind of monster. I've had run-ins with all of them. And meanwhile, the Apocalypse is fast approaching. If we want to save the world, we all have to band together." He finished, suddenly looking very tired.

Whoa. I didn't know how to react. Some reason I could believe him.

Suddenly I went back five years; I was the tallest kid in fifth grade, watching as AJ Nabinkoff morphed into a hideous web of smoke with red eyes and a forked tongue while all the kids at the Wilderness School looked on in horror. I was herding everyone outside while my friend Percy took on AJ and the other demons. I was watching the pipes explode.

All these years I'd stuffed that day in the deepest, darkest basement of my mind, willing it to be only a nightmare.

But all the willing in the world cannot change the past.

Given that, this winged being who'd appeared at my father's funeral and his terrifying claims weren't that hard to accept. But his presence here, his knowledge of my family, was still unexplained.

What was his motive in finding us?

I spoke testily. I felt that pretending to be skeptical would keep me safer somehow. "Well, 'Fang', this has all been extremely interesting, but what does it have to do with my parents?"

"They designed us."

?

"Beg pardon?"

"They designed us," he repeated. "You do know what they did for a living, don't you?"

"Yes, of course."

My mom and dad were super-smart geneticists who met in college and afterward worked at the same companies. They were married on December 21, twenty-one years ago.

I was born five years into their marriage. Preceding me were two children who died in infancy—Peter and Anna, they were named. If they were still alive, Peter would be twenty and Anna would be eighteen. Neither parent liked to talk about them. Ron was born three years after me. After him came a miscarriage, and then I think Mom decided the two of us were enough.

We had lived in the little house in the desert for as long as I could remember. Except for a disastrous stay at the Wilderness School when I was in fifth grade and Ron was in first, we were homeschooled. At the Wilderness School I met the only friend outside the family I'd ever had: a boy from New York with freakish emerald eyes named Percy Jackson. But I never saw him again, and thinking about him still made me sad.

When I was twelve, our maternal Gramma moved in with us. She remained until she died last summer.

Before I'd never really questioned why we lived out in the middle of nowhere, only venturing into civilization to buy the few groceries we didn't grow on our little farm, or why Ron and I were strictly forbidden to get our own email accounts. Prior to the Wilderness School I was too young to care much; after that horrible year I welcomed the solitude. Whenever Ron asked about it—which he did; he was always the inquisitive one—Mom and Dad would tell us it was for our own safety: we were different from other kids, both in our upbringing and our heritage, and they didn't want us to be victimized again like we had been at the Wilderness School. I was ok with that.

It had never occurred to me that maybe Dad and Mom didn't live that way just out of fear for us, but maybe for themselves as well. They told many stories about their times studying genetics, or working on specific scientific endeavors. Actually they told so many stories it seemed like all the gaps in their histories were filled, like there wasn't any room for a deep, dark secret.

I took a deep breath. "So you're saying my parents were these evil Frankensteins who created you so they could wipe out the human race?"

"No! Not like that!" Fang said hastily. "They were only in on making mutant kids, not on exterminating humanity. My research can't pin any crimes or abuses on them. When they saw how badly we mutants were treated, they left the School, threatening to expose the whole project."

"The 'School'?"

"That's what my Flock and I called the place where the whitecoats—the scientists, that is—worked.

"The Flock and I still aren't sure whether we were made in test tubes or if we were born normally and the wings were grafted onto us later. We've been searching for our parents for a while now, if we can find the time between fighting for our lives and all. Lately my...priorities have clashed with those of my Flock, so I left. That allowed me to pursue some things we dropped. I want answers, and in my research I heard about your parents, and I figured if anyone knew the truth and might tell it to a freak like me, it would be them. I found out where you guys lived and set out in search."

"But you arrived too late," I guessed.

"I did. The local authorities told me your house was struck by lightning. Is that what they told you?"

"Yes…though I don't remember any thunder or lightning that night."

"Of course you don't remember it, because there was none. Either the forensic department was deceived themselves or they lied to you. I was already suspicious, but they let me onto the investigation area—"

"They did?"

"—if you must know, I told them I was your cousin and the place had deep personal meaning for me—and they let me scrounge around the ruins of the house and I found this."

He took a small black object from his pocket and showed it to me.

I tried to figure out what the thing might be. It was circular and flat, apparently made of rock. An image was carved into its smooth, opaque surface: nine little circles stacked atop each other surrounded by ominous-looking squiggles. Somehow I knew the squiggles were flames.

"What is that?" I asked, tracing the etching with my finger cautiously, as though it might give off sparks.

"It's the symbol of the School," said Fang. He lowered his voice and stepped closer to me.

"Your parents did not die by accident, Sarah. They were hunted down and murdered."

Was it just me, or had the room grown darker?

"Can I see that thing?" I asked, my voice smaller and younger than I'd heard it in a long time. I was grateful Ron wasn't here to see me so scared. He needed to think I was strong right now.

"Fang…?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know…the name…of this…organization?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly someone appeared in the doorway at the other end of the room. At the exact same moment we whirled around to face the intruders. There were three of them; I could only distinguish their shadows: humanoid and small. Fang has raptor vision, so he might've seen a lot more.

Then my brother's voice called, "Sarah? Are you up here?"


	9. VI: The Obligatory Hallmark Card Moment

VI. The Obligatory Hallmark Card Moment

Brick and Greg had accompanied Ron. My brother carried the remains of my lunch on a paper plate, his face clearly displaying his worry.

"Are you ok?" he asked.

"I—I'm alright," I stammered, "I was just ta—" I looked back at Fang, but he was no longer there. Looking around the sanctuary, I could find no trace of him. How had he just vanished like that? Did I want to know?

"Just—taking a moment to think, that's all," I finished. "I'll be back down in a minute."

Ron didn't look convinced but for now he played along. "Want your food warmed up?"

"Nah, you can eat it if you like. I'm not hungry anymore. Thanks, bro."

The younger boys went back downstairs. I looked all around the upper floors and the bell tower for Fang, but he was gone. Nor was he to be found downstairs or around the church's perimeter. I couldn't help but wonder if I'd imagined the whole thing.

Then I felt the engraved disc still in my hand. Looking at the symbol terrified me—

—it slipped from my cold fingers. Bending to pick it up, I saw a shiny black feather, longer than any bird's, lying beside it on the floor. I took both items and concealed them in my dress-coat pocket.

Fang was real.

And my world—our world—already broken by the death of Mom and Dad, would never be safe again.

**...**

Dinner at Gammie's house was a strange experience.

I wound up sitting next to Great-Uncle Arthur. He was seventy-five and could apparently not speak English or any other language.

"Murrrp?" he asked, turning toward me.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Uncle. Would you like some mashed potatoes?" I passed him the bowl.

"Rupppp…" he replied. I still have no idea what that meant. Maybe it didn't mean anything.

Across the table from me, Rodrick was eating a slice of carrot cake off the side of his plate that was drenched in leftover ketchup. How could I ever have mistaken Fang for a friend of that nimrod?

All evening I'd been trying to get a moment alone with Ron so I could tell him what Fang had told me, but always there was someone or something preventing it. Maybe that was good. I had a lot to think about, and I didn't know how I could explain it all.

How could I know whether Fang could be trusted? His whole story might've been an utter falsehood. If someone dressed all in black _who has wings_ who you don't know shows up at your dad's funeral and tells you he knows why your parents died, one might deduce he knows because he's the one who killed them. Then again, if that were true, why would he seek us out? And who would be callous enough to create such a lie and tell it under such circumstances? Some of it, at least, must be true.

His story wasn't finished, either. He knew more about Mom and Dad and whoever killed them than my brother and I did, and I had a feeling we would need that information.

Of course, he had not told me where he went or how to contact him, so I could only hope that we'd meet again and have more time to talk.

**...**

There were several conversations going at the table simultaneously, but Gammie tapped her wineglass with her spoon three times, and everybody shushed.

They all rose from their chairs and shuffled into the living room.

Ron and I looked at each other, each thinking the other might know what that was all about. Since neither of us did, we just got up and followed them.

We found them all standing around Gammie in her favorite chair. At her feet was a pile of gift-wrapped packages. She was the first to speak.

"Sarah and Ron, we know that everything in your house was destroyed during that terrible fire. So we hoped these little gifts would provide you some small comfort."

"We all contributed," added Susan, mother of Rodrick and Greg.

Now I understood, and I was too stunned to speak. Ron whispered, "You mean all those packages are for us?"

"Yes, dear." The women and a few of the men smiled at us encouragingly. Most of the kids looked bored or jealous.

I put my arm around my brother's shoulders. We stammered out plentiful thank-yous.

We didn't know these people, and most of them were barely related to us. Yet they were so generous. We both began to weep again.

"God, but I'm embarrassed," Ron croaked.

"Me too!" I exclaimed. I turned to Susan, who was one of three moms hugging us. "I'm so sorry. I'm usually not this emotional."

"You've had a very painful, difficult couple of weeks," she replied. "You have certainly earned the right to cry. Don't be ashamed."

Christmas had come back for us, it seemed.

We got lots of clothes, both used and new. Uncle George, having tons of money to spare, bought us each a laptop. Gammie got us each an iPod nano, and Rodrick contributed two fifteen-dollar iTunes gift cards (he didn't look too happy about it). One of the girls gave me a silly-looking teen fantasy/romance novel about a goth girl and a fallen angel, and I was very courteous about it.

Hopi got a really good haul: a bag of food, a pack of Friskies, a jug of Tidy Cats, a shiny new litter box, and _Fallen_ to line the litter box with.

It was like something that would've happened in _Little Women_ or _Anne of Green Gables_, something almost too cozy and heartwarming to be true. Snuggled in the heart of the family, Fang and his tidings of doom seemed like a nightmare: scary, vague, and ultimately unreal.

**...**

A full moon shone that night.

My cousins snored softly, but I lay awake, my mind gnawing over today's every detail, trying to distinguish real from unreal.

I stretched out my arm, and my elbow bumped against something hard and cold: the engraved disc. I pulled it and the feather out from under my pillow to examine them. They looked even eerier now.

Hopefully I could find Bird Boy before we left for New York.

Hopi scratched at the door of the adjoining room, meowing desperately. For the past few days Hopi had been confined to that room, because our cousin Terrence is allergic to cats. I hid Fang's stuff under my pillow again and slipped off the bed. My poor kitty probably needed his litter box cleaned.

A movement from outside distracted me. Something flew across the moon's face and alighted on a tree in Gammie's yard.

The shape was plain—a tall, slender human male with wings.


	10. VII: One More Thing

VII. One More Thing.

The day of departure came.

Ron and I were packed and ready to leave. The Heffleys were all in an uproar, and poor Hopi, stuck again in his despised cat carrier, was not enjoying it.

When I walked by, he looked up at me and his piteous wailing broke my heart. So I threw on my winter gear and took him outside in the carrier. Neither of us had fully adjusted to the bitter Northern cold, but it was quiet outside, and some quiet would surely make Hopi (who's about nine-hundred-fifty in cat years) feel a little better.

Lugging the cat carrier, I walked to the base of the tree the winged being had alighted in last night. I looked up, seeing no sign of anything, but the branches were several storeys above me and—

"We meet again," said someone behind me. I turned around to face a shower of snow, which settled to reveal a handsome goth teenager, his wings concealed.

"Hello," I grunted.

"Do you have the…thing I gave you?" he asked earnestly, in a very low voice.

"Yes, of course," I returned in a whisper. "I've kept it secret and safe. It's in my suitcase right now."

"You're leaving today?"

"Yup."

"Where to?"

"New York, New York."

"There's an Institute in New York." Something in the way he said institute told me the place must be evil, or at least he thought it was.

"Well, yeah," I stammered. "I would think there would several institutes in New York. It's a very large city, after all."

Suddenly Fang gripped my shoulders and stared down my eyes. "Listen closely. This is important. The Institute I'm talking about is a giant lab where they—the evil scientists—imprisoned mutant freaks like me. Me and my Flock broke in and set the others free a year ago, but as far as I'm aware the place is still operating. You might find some info on your parents there."

"That reminds me," I cut in. "What exactly is the name of this organization?'

Fang hung his head, and I saw embarrassment, maybe even shame, in his black eyes.

"Um…uh…well, I don't know," he mumbled, letting go of my shoulders and sticking his hands in his pockets. "I do know there's a corporation called Itex that was trying to take over the world awhile back, and they were involved in all this somehow, but I'm not sure that the scientists were part of them or working for them. The Flock and I called the scientists, and the lab in Death Valley where they made us, the 'School'. But I don't know their real name. I'm sorry."

"Thank you, it's ok," I said. Some cowardly part of me was relieved, but mostly I was frustrated. What could I accomplish if I didn't know the name?

Fang glanced cautiously at the driveway, where Uncle George and some Heffley guys were loading a car. He always spoke in a low voice, but now he whispered even softer, to cover every slim chance of our being overheard. "I wouldn't recommend going to this Institute unless you're incredibly brave and have some kind of weapon with you. It could be dangerous."

"If it needs to be done, I'll do it," I said, not knowing how closely those words would bind me.

"Be careful, Sarah. Evil as those scientists are, there's plenty other things, some worse, lurking on the streets of Manhattan. Don't tell anyone what I've told you here except maybe your brother if you think he can handle it. Try to contact Chiron when you decide to…investigate stuff."

In Greek mythology, Chiron was a centaur and the wisest of all teachers, who trained famous warriors such as Jason and Achilles. I wondered why someone today would go by that name; they must be aware of its meaning. "Who's this Chiron?"

"He's this old dude who runs a summer camp for…special kids who aren't mutants. I've met him. He seems like a good guy—though appearances can deceive—but he knows, like, everything. He also has a pretty sweet selection of weapons."

I nodded, figuring it was now or never to ask him. "Fang, why should I trust you?"

He took a long time to answer; he didn't look at me. "Um…do you have any reason _not_ to trust me?"

Good point. He might be a goth; he might be going under a scary-sounding alias like "Fang"; he might insist on talking with me secretly; he might not even be fully human. But he hadn't done anything to hurt me.

I shrugged. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Marissa poked her head out of the doorway, hollering, "Sarah, we're leaving in five minutes! Hope you're all packed!" If she saw my new mutant acquaintance, she didn't give any sign.

"I'd better get going myself," he muttered. "And if you ever need extra help, go to my website: .com." He turned to leave, but I put my hand on his arm.

As I reached, I noticed my hand was curiously heavy, because I was still holding Hopi's carrier in that hand. He mewled with indignation.

Fang jumped. "What's that?"

I had to chuckle. "That's just my cat, Hopi. Don't be scared." Honestly, the boy fights the forces of evil on a daily basis, but he's scared of a kitty?

He bent to peer into the pet carrier. "Wow. A cat. A real live, normal, non-mutant cat."

Hopi stuck his nose between the bars in the door to sniff Fang's fingers. His yellow eyes widened; his grey ears went straight back.

Fang withdrew his hand, looking alarmed. "Is he mad? Is he gonna kill me?"

"No. He probably smells bird on you, that's all. You've never had a cat?"

"Closest thing I knew to a cat was Angel's mutant, flying, talking dog."

I choked on a laugh and he grinned at me. For just a second we were normal teens making small talk about our pets. Not about evil conspiracies. Not about saving the world.

"I really should be going," he repeated, but again I laid my hand on his arm to detain him. This time I made sure it was my free hand.

"There's one more thing I need to know."

"Yeah?"

It hit me now that if Fang was right, the world outside our little plot of land in Arizona was a lot more perilous than I'd ever suspected. Being orphaned is hard enough, but knowing that there are people out there who might want to kill you makes it even worse.

"These people who murdered my parents…are they after Ron and me?"

Fang turned sympathetic eyes on me.

"I wish I knew," he murmured.

And just like that, he was gone.


	11. VIII: Dreams of a Tortured Mind

**AN: **The song lyrics in this chapter are from "Since U Been Gone" by Kelly Clarkson. Please note that I actually like most of the music Sarah and Ron complain about. They are music elitists, I am not.

Mrs. Bennet is from the novel _Pride and Prejudice _by Jane Austen, which I warmly recommend to everyone.

* * *

><p>VIII. Dreams of a Tortured Mind.<p>

Redness streaked down the dirt road. I tried to swerve around it, but I barely know how to drive, so for my pains I barreled right into it.

Turns out "it" was a six-foot-tall, red-feathered dinosaur bird. I don't think it liked being driven into. It screeched, showing its rows of razor teeth, and scratched the truck hood with its foreclaw.

"Oh, I will surely go into hysterics! Oh, my poor nerves!" cried Mrs. Bennet, squeezing her handkerchief in terror and anguish.

The dinosaur bird turned its head to stare at her in the passenger seat. She flailed her arms, switching on the radio accidently.

A bizarre song began to play. It didn't even sound like music to me. I guessed it must be some of that horrible current pop music Ron and I were forbidden to listen to because it would "destroy [our] ability to think for [our] selves."

I didn't have much time to contemplate the sheer awfulness of the song because the dino slashed the windshield open.

Quickly I scanned the car for weapons, for anything that could prevent me and my passenger's last earthly journey from being into the creature's snarling mouth. Nothing. The beady yellow eyes darted back and forth, as though trying to decide which human to eat first.

"Oh, this is the end, my dear! I shall die in agony, and Charlotte Lucas will gloat over my remains! And Jane will never get her Mr. Bingley! All is lost!" Mrs. Bennet wailed.

The radio said:

_"But since you been gone _

_I can breathe for the first time _

_I'm so moving on _

_Yeah, yeah _

_Thanks to you _

_Now I get what I want…_

_Since you been gone…"_

The last thing I saw was the darkness behind the dinosaur's tongue. But I didn't feel its teeth sinking in. Instead, I felt something gently poking my arm.

To my immense relief, I was not being eaten by a dinosaur. Nor was I driving a truck through the desert with Mrs. Bennet from _Pride and Prejudice_. I was on a plane headed for New York City.

But the song continued to play. Was I still half-asleep? I shook my head to clear it and the music stopped.

"Well, well, look who decided to wake up," said Amy grumpily from the seat beside me. Moonlight and starlight poured through the windows, turning the plane's interior a vague silver-blue color. Amy is much easier to look at in dim light; one is less likely to go blind from the assault of artificial hair and makeup colors. She tells me she's something called emo, which is similar to punk and goth. Being emo apparently requires you to overreact to everything, dye your hair garish colors, use far too much eyeliner, wear skintight jeans and converse shoes, and listen to a lot of bad pop/rock music.

"How long have I been asleep?" I asked groggily.

"Since liftoff. I guess you must be pretty tired after all that's happened recently."

I nodded, trying to sift the memories of what really happened (the fire, the funerals) from what had only been a nightmare (Fang).

Now I understood where that awful song came from. It still piped faintly from Amy's earbuds, which had fallen on my lap after I shook them out of my ears. "Thanks for loaning me your iPod."

"No problem. What're you listening to?" She leaned over, examining the little glowing screen. "Ah, 'Since U Been Gone.' Isn't that song just the story of every teenage girl's life?"

"Um…to each her own, I guess."

I wasn't sure I understood Amy. She'd loaned me her iPod, and sometimes she'd smiled at me, but overall she acted like my brother and I were a huge burden on her. I wondered how Ron and I would respond if the positions were reversed, if Amy had lost her parents and been sent to live with us in Arizona.

If I thought about my old home, I'd start crying. There was enough time for that once we got to Uncle George's house, where at least I'd have privacy.

Ron leaned up from the seat behind Amy. "Hey sis. We're almost there." I couldn't tell how he felt on the subject from his tone of voice.

"I hate the city, but the view really is something," Amy told me. She had the window seat. "Wanna switch spots?"

"Sure, thank you." We swapped seats, and what I saw out that window left me speechless.

I'd seen pictures of NYC at night, but flying over it was a whole different ballgame. Colossal buildings sent out cold white-blue light from innumerable windows. Cars glowed and scuttled along the streets below. We floated between the sky and the city—not earth, but an element all its own.

Amy was right. It was beautiful, though it was also the polar opposite of my old home.

Fear prickled at my neck, as though the winged guy and his tales of evil scientists might not be entirely imaginary. But I shrugged it down. Fang was no more real than Mrs. Bennet and the dinosaur, I told myself. _And everything's gonna be all right. You hear me, girl? Everything's gonna be all right._


	12. IX: Homesick

IX. Homesick.

"Amy and I fixed this room up for you, Sarah," said Aunt Marissa. "Do you like it?"

I stepped in cautiously. The walls were a very pleasant shade of pastel orange. All the furniture was antique wrought-iron. The canopy bed was bigger and cushionier than the one I had at home. Garlands of fake ivy and red roses draped over everything, matching the dark red canopy and bedspread. Someone had hung up the new clothes the Heffleys bought me in the closet. My new silver laptop sat on the desk. Next to the bed was a nice retro lava lamp.

Marissa switched off the overhead light. The lava lamp began to glow fiery purple, and I saw there were miniature Japanese paper lanterns nestled among the artificial plants.

I caught my breath. Turning to face Marissa was embarrassing. "Wow…" I mumbled. "Thank you so much."

How would I ever pay her back?

Marissa pulled me close to her and hugged me.

"I know I can't replace your mom," she said gently, "but I hope we'll be the best of friends. You know you can trust me with anything, right?"

I nodded, speechless.

She released me, saying, "I'm gonna see about dinner now. Holler if you need anything."

I watched her leave. Marissa was pretty much the opposite of my mom: while my mother had been dark, somber and reserved, Marissa was a perky, stylish blonde who always wore her generous heart on her sleeve. But I don't think I could've asked for a nicer replacement mom. She was right. We would be great friends, I knew it.

First all the nice stuff the Heffleys had gotten me and now this.

I needed to get started on those thank-you notes.

For a while I lay on my new bed with the light off and the lanterns on, wondering what posters I'd put on the walls and what books I'd put on which shelf (once I bought some).

Although I had high hopes for the future, the prickling fear still lurked in the back of my mind like a goth kid with wings. Besides, these changes were so many and so sudden I felt my shoulders aching under their weight. One lonely tear ran down my cheek.

Since Ron was three years and seven months younger than me, he was probably taking all this a lot worse. I left my lovely new room to search him out.

They'd set a room up for him, too. It wasn't as colorful as mine. The walls were a manly shade of grey-blue and the wooden furniture was serviceably handsome.

My brother sat Buddha-style on his dark green bedspread, absently stroking Hopi. Ron's eyes were downcast. He'd looked happy on the plane, but any joy was clearly short-lived and long gone.

"Hey, bro," I said, sitting on the end of the bed to scratch Hopi's chin. "How're you doing?"

No reply.

"How do you like your room?" I ventured.

"It's ok," he mumbled. A tear trickled down his freckled face, and he wiped it off frustratedly with the underside of his equally freckled hand.

"But it's not home," he continued. "I know we can't go back to how things used to be, but I want to all the same. Remember our rooms back home? They weren't as fancy or anything, but they were really ours. At home we had a view of cacti and cool rock formations. Now we look outside to see cars, and skyscrapers in the near distance."

"C'mon, we're on the Upper East Side! We're doing great!" I said, forcing a smile. I felt the same way he did, but I knew I ought to act mature and put a happy face on it. "But I see what you mean…I'm sure we'll go back to Arizona someday."

He said nothing. Through this whole conversation he had never looked up.

"Ron, is there anything you want to talk about?" I asked.

"Actually, Sarah? I think I need to be alone for a while," he murmured. "Is that ok?"

"Of course, bro. I'll be hanging in my room if you change your mind." I got up and left. I understood if he needed to be alone, but I also felt a little stung that he didn't want me around.

Once more I recalled the horrible reoccurring dream I'd had last evening and the night before, about the winged guy. No previous dream that I'd ever had was that clear or vivid. Obviously it was born of my grief and anxiety.

Was Ron grappling with a similar dream, a similar fear?


	13. Interlude: Fang

**AN: **See if you can guess who the kid is that Fang meets in this chapter. A hint: he usually doesn't have green hair. (Don't worry; he's not an OC). His identity will be revealed in a later chapter, but I'm curious if anyone can recognize him before. :-)

* * *

><p>INTERLUDE<p>

Fang sat amid the high leafy branches, nearly invisible and perfectly still.

He watched the beat-up old car careen around the bend in the road, coming to an abrupt stop under his tree.

The driver was alone. He had wild lime-green hair, which brought up unpleasant memories for Fang. He was leaning his head out the window, singing along really badly with the heavy metal station. He looked too small to be driving.

Fang had to chuckle. Someone needed to explain to the driver that people on the run shouldn't draw attention to themselves. The kid was incredibly lucky that he'd made it this far…either it was luck, or he was driving into a trap. The mutant teenager's raptor vision scanned the forest for threats, but nothing moved except the leaves in the faint wind.

The kid then did something Fang did not expect.

He rolled up his window, turned off the radio, locked all the doors from the inside, and curled up in the trunk with a tarp pulled all the way over him like a blanket.

Sleeping by day, travelling by night. Fang was familiar with that lifestyle, but he didn't expect an ordinary kid to do it. Assuming this kid _was_ ordinary…

Within about ten minutes the kid's snores started drifting up to Fang's keen ears.

Slowly the mutant boy unfurled his huge black wings and descended.

As he approached the car, he wished Iggy were here. Iggy could pick any lock.

But so could the supposedly magic key the warlock in Chicago had given him.

_Here goes nothing, _Fang thought, preparing himself to find the key was a piece of junk.

He fit it into the lock and turned and...it worked.

The kid continued snoring, despite the noise of the door opening. There was a phone book on the driver's seat; apparently he wasn't tall enough to reach the steering wheel.

Fang looked under every seat and in every compartment for that precious manila folder, with no success.

_The kid must have it under the tarp with him._

As gingerly as he could, Fang eased the tarp off the younger boy.

The kid couldn't be older than ten. His face was dirty, and his breath reeked like he hadn't brushed his teeth in several weeks. He slept cuddled up to a backpack, holding it like it was a stuffed animal.

The pattern of his snores abruptly stopped, and he sat up, awake.

"Hey! Get back! Get out!" he snarled, sounding very scared and not at all threatening.

Fang reached out and put a hand over the kid's mouth. "Don't make any noise," he whispered. "Someone might hear you."

The kid bit his hand.

Fang ignored the bite. He unzipped the backpack with his other hand and rummaged through it.

The kid started trying to punch him, but Fang raised the arm that wasn't perusing the backpack to block him.

There was nothing here but comic books. How anyone on the lam could be stupid enough to pack their bag with nothing but comic books was beyond Fang—

Wait! Between _Spider-Man _# 811 and _Captain America _# 787, there it was…a manila folder in a plastic bag, bursting with documents and labeled simply "Blackwood" in blue marker.

"I hope Sarah's ok," he mused aloud. He'd told her to check out his blog, but if she was reading it she sure wasn't commenting or subscribing or anything. There was no way to know if she'd even looked at it, and for some reason, Fang was getting really concerned.

The kid's eyes tripled in size. He finally fought his way around Fang's arm.

"You can't touch those!" he cried. "Top secret!"

Fang put his hands on the kid's shoulders to restrain him. "Listen, buddy, I know these are really cool and everything, but they're not like all your comics, understand? They're real, and they're very important. And there's a girl in New York who needs them if she's going to avenge her parents."

"Liar! Those were my dad's! I found them in his office! No one else was supposed to touch them! They're what got my dad killed. Who cares about your girlfriend's parents? I need 'em to avenge _my_ parents!"

"She's not my girlfriend," Fang muttered (not realizing that he was blushing) "and if she was, it's hardly relevant. Her parents created this folder. They were murdered because of what was in it. Is your last name Blackwood?"

"No," the kid mumbled, a little confused.

"Then I think my friend Sarah needs it more than you," said Fang primly.

He opened the trunk from the inside and climbed out, shutting the hatch behind him quickly to delay any pursuit.

"AUGGGGHHHH—" he heard the kid scream behind him.

Fang started down the road (lucky for him it was a bit of a decline), jogging to get a little momentum.

The kid scrambled into the driver's seat and lurched the car into pursuit, narrowly missing driving straight into that one tree.

"Get back, miserable thief!" he cried, sounding like he was trying to imitate one of his superheroes confronting a villain.

Fang wriggled his shoulders and unfurled his wings.

"Someday you'll thank me," he replied.

The kid just gaped with horrified despair.

Fang flew away, above the car, above the treetops…

The kid's parting shot came after him on the wind: "GOOD WILL ALWAYS TRIUMPH OVER EVIL, YOU HIDEOUS SCUM BEING!"

_Hideous scum being? _Fang thought as his wings carried him away. _That's a new one._

He had a sinking feeling they'd meet again.

And next time, gods preserve us, the kid might have a flamethrower.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Have you guessed who the kid is? Let me know in the reviews. Thanks. :-)


	14. X: Day One

**AN: **I know I already said at the beginning of the story that I don't agree with the various OCs and narrators all the time. But I felt the need to clarify this again because the new narrator, Ron J. Blackwood...has some issues. Namely, he has zero self-confidence, so he hates all guys who are better-looking than him...guys like Percy, Alec, Fang, Jace, Magnus and Nico. (I know, right? How could you hate Percy? *rolls eyes*). Also, Ron has a bad habit of going off on irrelevant tangents on history and pop culture, usually to complain. Please don't be offended by his OCD, tics, and cute-guy bashing. Thank you :-)

P.S. Don't mind any of the mean things Uncle George says about emo music in this chapter either. He's just a soulless businessman who has no idea how to deal with his somewhat rebellious stepdaughter.

* * *

><p><em>"The noise of battle hurtled in the air...And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets." <em>~William Shakespeare, _Julius Caesar, _Act II, Scene II

ACT I / LEVEL TWO

X. Day One of the Rest of My Life.

_Speaker: Ron_

My sister means well. She needs to cope with her grief, just like I do with mine. I know why she's behaving this way. But that doesn't console me much.

A question lingered in my mind, but I was almost afraid to ask it: who or what was that guy who called himself Fang, and what did he want with us?

I generally resent good-looking guys because they make me feel inferior. But there was more than that at work here. Everything about Fang scared me. He'd come on a mission.

I remembered how I felt the day before yesterday, when he sat at our table and introduced himself. Why was he there? How did he know our names?

Sarah was the image of composure. Only her eyes betrayed any emotion. If you didn't know her as well as I do, you might miss it. She was afraid of him too.

People think she's fearless, and I am a coward by comparison. That's not true—at least, the part about her isn't. She gets scared like any other human being. She's just better at concealing it than most teenagers.

The part about me is true, sadly. I'm the biggest coward I know. If I weren't such a coward, I would've told Fang to leave us alone, instead of shaking in my seat, reaching for my sister's hand and eying possible escape routes.

I cannot decide whether to be grateful to or angry at Brick Heck. How did he know to interrupt the conversation just then? Few subjects in the world are more boring than Thucydides' _History_, but it distracted me for just a moment. For just a moment I could ignore the big, handsome, goth thundercloud sitting across the table from me.

And in that moment I turned my head to listen to Brick, Sarah slipped away.

So did Fang.

Where were they? What were they doing?

Horrible thoughts coursed through my brain. Instinctively I jumped up and went in search of her, taking her barely-eaten lunch with me for good measure. Brick followed me, still talking; I don't think he even noticed anything was wrong. We were joined by my cousin Greg, who just wanted something to do.

We found her in the sanctuary upstairs alone, acting shaken, holding a circular object I couldn't identify from where I stood. No sign of Fang that I could see, but the place reeked of his dark, secretive presence.

What had he done to her? She seemed quite distraught. She made it clear she didn't want me around just then, so I turned and left her, worried about her, and angry about something I couldn't explain or describe. Brick and Greg were soon reabsorbed into whatever they'd been doing before. I was left alone to juggle the deaths of Mom and Dad with the arrival of the scary, mysterious older boy.

That night I'd seen a huge, misshapen bird perch on a tree in Gammie's yard. I didn't know what the bird had to do with any of this, but both incidents were strange and eerie, so it seemed natural to connect them. The following morning there was no sign of the bird in the tree or anywhere in the yard.

This morning we left for New York. Sarah snuck outside—with Hopi, which I thought was odd. I saw her talking with someone at the foot of that same tree. Since I knew I'd need to call the police on him someday, I memorized his appearance. He's roughly five-foot-eleven; appeared Caucasian (then again, he might not be of one-hundred percent European ancestry); about sixteen years old; black eyes; black hair; last seen wearing black skinny jeans, a black leather jacket and sunglasses. As I watched, he disappeared in a swirl of snow.

My sister came back into the house with sad eyes; she barely said a word for the rest of the day. Not even to me. That's what made me suspicious. Sarah and I told each other everything.

Something was very wrong here.

Whatever Fang wanted, how come he couldn't tell both of us? Why only Sarah?

Was he trying to sow discord in what was left of our family, turning sister against brother and brother against sister? Why would he want to do that? What harm had we ever done him?

**...**

I sat on my new bed in Uncle George's house, petting Hopi. This house was old and big and beautiful in a Victorian sort of way, probably full of secrets.

We could be living in a villa in the south of France with servants and more money than we knew what to do with, but I'd still want to go back to Arizona and live in a tiny house in the middle of the desert; preferably with my parents and grandmother, restored to life.

_Maybe I should just _ask_ Sarah about Fang_, I thought. I had a sinking feeling she might not tell me, but I swallowed it down. Of course she would; horrible secrets are always better shared with someone. And didn't I just remind myself that we told each other everything?

Marissa knocked on my door. "Ron? Can I come in?"

I grunted a reply. She took it as a yes.

Both Marissa and George rubbed me the wrong way for some reason. I knew they were incredibly kind to open their home to Sarah and me, and that I ought to be grateful. Which I was, as much as I could be.

But I hated New York. I'd only been here six hours, and I already loathed it. Even in this house—this grand, ostentatious old mansion—we could not escape the noise of millions of people and cars; it gnawed at me way up here in my second-story bedroom. The surface of the earth was hidden from me, armored under concrete and asphalt as far as the eye could see.

We were lucky. We in this neighborhood were wealthy enough to have small yards.

George seemed ok (if awfully businesslike), but I sensed this awkwardness in his interactions with us. Maybe that was because we'd only met him once before, so long ago I couldn't remember it. We were strangers. Dad and Mom barely had any contact with George or any other Blackwood family members, other than Christmas cards.

Marissa seemed nice too, but some reason I just couldn't respect her the way I respected my mom. Maybe Marissa's appearance contributed to this, I don't know. All I knew was I could never see her as a mother figure. _My mom has black hair, thank you very much. And she never giggles._

"Ron?" Marissa asked, gently, as though I might not be there.

"Yes?"

"Dinner's ready if you'd like to come down and eat."

**...**

I did come down and eat, for as long as I could stand it.

Eating dinner with the Heffleys was bad, but at least there were so many people talking and making noise that it covered the awkwardness. Here I had no such luck.

There were five of us at the table: George, Marissa, Sarah, Amy and myself. Supper itself was good—rich, tasty food without any tofu in it. I thought of our vegetable garden at home, a tarp protecting it from the rare desert frost; and of our free-range chickens that ate only the best grain.

Nothing was left of any of it now. I'd seen the tall, charred ghosts of tomato vines and sunflowers. Sarah had covered my eyes when the firefighters brought out the burned chicken corpses.

Throughout most of the meal, a highly irritating thrashing sound, faint but constant, lingered somewhere in the dining room.

George had a large appetite, like Dad, like me under ordinary circumstances. But he worked out religiously, so he kept himself trim.

Marissa ate like a bird. Apparently she was watching her weight, which was stupid, because she had a great figure. (Yes, I'm at the age where I notice things like that). Hypocritically, she kept harping at my sister and me to eat more.

"George tells me you kids used to listen to rock music with your dad," she said at one point, flashing a smile that was surely meant to cheer us up. All I could think of was Mom's teeth. Hers were perfect too, but that's because of her diet. I think Marissa uses whitening strips. And Mom ate as much as she wanted to. She just made sure to exercise.

"Why yes, we did," Sarah replied.

"Amy's in a rock band," Marissa continued. "Why don't you tell Sarah and Ron about your band, Amy?"

Amy made no reply. She just stared at her plate, picking individual flecks of parmesan cheese off the spaghetti with her fingertips.

"Amy?"

"Huh?" Amy took off her earbuds. The thrashing sound stopped. She'd been listening to her iPod at the dinner table! Mom and Dad would've killed Sarah and I if we'd ever tried something like that.

As it was, Marissa looked pretty annoyed. "Amelia Wasikowska Porter, how many times have I told you not to listen to your MP3 player while we eat? It's disrespectful."

"What were you saying before?" Amy grumbled.

"Tell Sarah and Ron about your band. I'm sure they'd be interested."

"I'm not sure, to be honest," George cut in. "I know my brother's taste in music. I take it you kids listened to a lot of Rush?"

"Yeah," I said. "Rush, Yes, Genesis, Tull, Zeppelin, Kansas, Deep Purple, Hendrix, The Doors, some early Queen—"

"Quite an impressive list," George replied. "Lots of high-quality music. I can therefore assure you that Amy's group—"

"Band," said Amy sourly. "It's called a band."

"No, it's a group. You can have a rock band, jazz band, or marching band, but you can't have a pop band. You kids are pop. Therefore you're not a band. You're a group."

Amy rolled her eyes.

"I've heard of pop bands, George," said Marissa, trying to pacify them both.

George brushed on past. "Amy's group only appeals to kids so ignorant of music history they classify Hey Monday as a rock band."

"Monday who?" Sarah and I repeated.

That was the end of that conversation.

"How do you like New York?" asked Marissa.

"I hate it!" cried Amy. "I mean, I've got friends here, but I still hate it."

"I know you do, dear—you tell us at least five times a day—but we have to make the best of it. Anyway, the question was for Sarah and Ron."

"It's nice enough, I guess," Sarah replied. "Very different from where we used to live. But I'm sure we'll grow to like it. Right, brother?" She looked at me with concern.

I picked at my salad and grunted.

Awkward silence.

"Amy, have you decided what you want to do for your birthday party? I know it's not for a couple weeks, but we should get everything settled before anyone makes other plans."

"Please do not have your band over to practice," interjected George before Amy could answer.

"Honey!" Marissa exclaimed. "Remember, your dad didn't like your music either!"

"There's a difference between real rock with real guitars and bubblegum pop with fake guitars. There's a difference between boys with long hair and flannel shirts and girls with tight designer jeans and too much eyeliner. There's a difference between wanting to be the next Keith Emerson and wanting to be the next Hayley Williams. Besides, I told Dare we'd have the board meeting here."

"You're still too hard on them."

"Mom, if you haven't noticed, I don't care what he thinks," Amy cut in. "As for my birthday: I'm gonna invite Rachel, Clary, Simon, Eric, Matt, Ivy, Lisa, Katie, Terri, Michelle, Jake, and the Gaunts. We'll eat out, and then we'll go see a movie. Sarah and Ron can come if they want."

"You can't invite Matt," said George. "He's the druggie, isn't he?"

"A _recovering_ druggie."

"That's what they all say."

"He's fine, all right?"

"Don't let Rachel bring that boyfriend of hers, Percy what's-his-name. He looks like a terrorist in the making."

"Whatever. I don't like him either."

"And do you really have to invite Simon and Eric? You know how I hate them."

"George! I think Simon's a nice boy. And Eric's going through a tough time with his family. We have to be patient with him."

"If he starts reading any of his ridiculous poetry I swear I'll kick him out of the house. What about Clary? Why do you want her around? She needs to be grounded for a year or two if you ask me."

"Because she's my freaking best friend, that's why."

"Amy, we don't say 'freaking' at the dinner table. George, we know what's wrong with Clary, poor fatherless child."

George turned to us. "Ron and Sarah, by no means feel obligated to spend any time with Amy's friends. If anything, I encourage you to avoid them. You're too smart for those riffraff."

"What's your problem, Blackwood?" Amy shouted, rising from her chair. "For all you know, these two might get along great with my friends. What've you got against me, huh? You gotta bash my band, my friends…so just shut up! Just SHUT UP!" She left the room. Tears shimmered in her eyes, but it might've just been the makeup.

"Amy, come back here!" called Marissa. Then she turned to George. "I hate to say this, but she has a point. What are you trying to do, George?"

I couldn't bear anymore. "Can I please be excused? Can I take my food up to my room?"

"Sure, honey," said my aunt-by-marriage with a long sigh.

**...**

I was too tired to ask Sarah anything about Fang that night. And in the following days, I was so caught up in trying to adjust that I forgot.

If this was Day One of the Rest of My Life, I was in for one bumpy ride.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Please tell me who you think the kid Fang met in chapter 13 was when you review. There's still a few chapters to go before his identity is revealed, and I'm very curious about who y'all think he is. Thanks for reading and reviewing! :-)


	15. XI: Dare & Jackson at the Movies

XI. Dare & Jackson at the Movies.

They don't get much snow in New York (a lot less than say, Orson) but a good deal more than my desert eyes were used to seeing. Whenever I thought about it, it made me nervous. I was grateful to see it melt.

Uncle George proved to be a _little_ less of a crank as we got to know him. I figured he and Amy just strongly disliked each other, and the more I knew them, the more I felt the trouble between them was mostly her fault. Marissa was always kind, but she wasn't a deep thinker like my mom, and George didn't have a hair of Dad's sense of humor.

My sister and I gradually built ourselves a routine. George gave us each a seven-dollar-weekly allowance, and we found some shops to buy stuff to personalize our rooms. Hippie stores with political slogan knickknacks for her, musty used book shops for me. There was an antique shop called Clio's where we bought an old guitar each, and Sarah also purchased both an electric and an upright bass—all for forty bucks! That was a few weeks of both our allowances, but it was totally worth it.

Diplomatic relations between Amy and Sarah and me were not in top condition. This was largely Amy's fault. Maybe I have a bit of the blame too. But Sarah tried really hard.

I became a pathetic blob of maladjusted prepubescent lethargy. Of course we both missed Mom and Dad. But while Sarah was able to channel her sorrow into soldiering through her algebra textbook, I could only deal by moping in my room, listening to Nirvana. I refused to get a haircut—not for any particular reason; it was just the one thing left in my life I had any control over. My hair grew past my shoulders. I let it cover the zits that had come out of nowhere in the past week to colonize my face.

I hated my new life. I hated my old memories. I hated Amy because of her bad attitude. I hated Marissa for trying so hard to help. I hated George for taking out his anxiety for his company on us. I hated Sarah for shifting gears so well. I hated myself for hating everything.

Most of all I hated Mom and Dad for having the nerve to die, leaving us with nowhere to go but this infernal city.

**...**

Did I mention the nightmares?

They came every time I slept. They showed me a city made of glass, populated by good-looking people in stylish black clothes. They carried weapons, mostly swords, and they had weird symbols tattooed on their arms. When they'd spot me, they'd shout "Traitor! Friend of demons!" I always woke up with a prickling on the surface of my chest—a sword's first contact.

I couldn't tell anyone. Every time I got the opportunity, my mind blanked and my tongue was too heavy to speak with. There were so many things happening, so many people coming in and out of the house, so many noises begging for attention. For the first twelve years of my life the world had turned so slowly I couldn't feel it move. Now it went at the speed of light. I couldn't slow it down, nor could I catch up.

All I wanted was a moment to come up and breathe.

**...**

Amy's late March birthday dawned grey and rainy.

I'd bought her a blank journal with a faux aged red leather cover. Sarah had purchased a pair of silver earrings sculpted like owls with tiny turquoise eyes.

The three of us waited in the vestibule with the black-and-white checked marble floor. We'd made sure to look our best for Amy and her friends.

I'd combed my hair and tied most of it back in a ponytail, letting one skinny braid hang down like the dudes in _Star Wars_. I wore my Grateful Dead t-shirt with all the multicolored teddy bears marching into the psychedelic spiral.

Sarah's hair was braided. She had her favorite pair of baggy jeans on. Her t-shirt displayed a quote from Howard Zinn: "Dissent gave birth to this nation."

If Amy's friends knew what a _nation_ was, I'd be impressed. I doubted any of them had ever seen the word _dissent_, let alone be able to define it.

Yes, I am an intellectual snob.

They started arriving at five o'clock in the afternoon.

Most of them didn't show up—Terri, Lisa, Matt, Ivy, Katie, Jake and Michelle—for various reasons. I can't say I blamed them for not wanting to come.

Eric Schafer and Simon Lewis arrived together in a hideous banana-yellow minivan. Simon was even taller and stringier than Sarah, wearing a World of Warcraft t-shirt. He was supposedly Amy's boyfriend, but neither paid the other any special attention.

Eric had shoulder-length blond hair, the tips of which were dyed pink; he carried a binder labeled "Poems and Prophecies" close to his chest.

Clary Fray came alone.

Clary, Simon's best friend, was a few months older than Amy, but shorter than me. She had long red hair and big eyes the color of emerald. The eyes seemed familiar to me somehow, like I'd met someone before whose irises were so unnaturally green. Clary's t-shirt had a little purple cartoon monster on it; the monster was gleefully holding up an x-ray panel to its stomach, revealing a dog, and in the dog's stomach was a notebook. The caption read "A monster ate my dog and my dog ate my homework."

John and Philippa Gaunt lived next door. They came with their dad, who was attending the business meeting at our house. I'd seen their mom, who was from somewhere in the Middle East and stunningly beautiful. Philippa looked nothing like her—she was small and ginger-haired with glasses. When I shook her hand, her flesh burned like she had a fever, but she didn't look sick.

John did take after their mom. He was tall, dark and handsome enough to make me resent him right away.

William Dare, CEO of Dare Enterprises, entered the house, passing briskly through the vestibule. The housekeeper, Mrs. Mosher (the idea of having a housekeeper still unnerved me) came to take his coat and hat and promptly disappeared again.

"Hey, Mr. Dare," said Amy cautiously. "Did Rachel come with you?"

He replied by looking sidelong at these friends of his daughter's as though they were vines choking his garden. Granted, we probably didn't look like anyone a prim and proper socialite would want his sole offspring to associate with. We were a motley mix of hippies, emo kids, and socially inept nerds, with two preps, John and Philippa, thrown in for good measure. They were probably the only respectable-looking kids in our group, so far as Dare was concerned.

"No," he said distractedly. "She'd made other plans."

"Why didn't she call me, then?" Amy asked, visibly distressed. "Is she too busy to even—"

Mr. Dare was gone.

I surmised he didn't like teenagers very much.

Amy sighed angrily. "What's her problem? She never wants to hang with us anymore."

"She's all taken up with that _guy_," grumbled Eric, jealousy showing in his voice. "The guy who's always looking around like something's gonna jump out and attack him. The dude with the freaky green eyes."

"Hey, bright green eyes can be pretty," mumbled Simon, looking sheepishly at Clary, who was absorbed in her cell phone.

"Whatcha doin', Fray?" I asked, peering over her shoulder. God, I loved being taller than someone three years older than me! And she was cute too. Simon wasn't the only one who liked her emerald eyes around here.

"I'm giving our friend Rachel Elizabeth Dare a call," she responded bitterly. "She's blown us all off so many times since last summer. Time to find out why."

"Maybe we shouldn't," Philippa mused, twisting a strand of hair distractedly around the tip of her index finger. "John, do you think it's necessary?"

John stared at the opposite wall and grunted. I was no longer jealous of him. He might be much handsomer than me, but at least I could speak like a civilized human being.

Clary punched in Rachel's number with a vengeance. She listened for a few seconds, then hit the end button angrily. "She's not picking up!"

"Un-be-freaking-lievable!" Amy yelped, yanking at her turquoise streak. "What are we? Chopped liver?"

"Yes," said Simon with a smirk. I think he was just trying to lighten the mood, but it didn't help much.

"Don't worry, everyone," said Sarah suddenly. These were the first words we'd heard from her all evening. "Let's not get mad at Rachel. Maybe she has a perfectly innocent reason for her behavior. If she _is_ doing this just to be cruel, aren't you better off without her? We can have fun. I mean, we're gonna go out after dark to eat unhealthy food and see a brainless action movie. We'll have a blast, I'm sure. Who needs Rachel Dare?"

**...**

We feasted on pizza and gelato at a pretty little Italian eatery called Sandro & Simonetta's. Then we headed to the fancy-pants high-tech movie multiplex known as The Coliseum, which had just opened uptown.

Let's just say I like pizza and gelato a lot—especially in large quantities—but I'm not sure pizza and gelato like me.

So there I was, camped out in a stall in the men's room, listening to Simon and Eric talking outside. During supper, Eric had found a captive audience for his horrible poetry in my sister, who, unlike the others, was too polite to tell him to shut up.

"Dude," he was telling Simon. "I've got that Sarah Blackwood wrapped around my finger. Told you chicks dig sensitive poets."

Simon grunted. "You'd better get that delusion out of your head, Schafer. That girl doesn't like your gibberish anymore than the rest of us do. She's just more passive-aggressive about it than we are."

"Shut up, Lewis, you're just jealous."

"Um, no, how could I be jealous?" He lowered his voice. "Eric, I think it's pretty obvious that Amy's cousin…isn't into guys."

"You mean…she's a—"

"She's a _what_, gentlemen?" I asked, coming out to wash my hands. "Think carefully."

Eric slunk out of the room looking embarrassed. "You deal with this one," he told his friend. "He's, like, evil."

I shouldered past some grey-headed dads to the sink, where I washed my hands. Simon snickered contemptuously at the sight. "What's your problem, Lewis?" I snarled.

"You're such a little idiot," he replied. "I mean, a guy should never wash his hands unless he's going on a date. Or to a funeral or wedding."

"Dude, my parents were scientists. We had to wash our hands before and after every meal. If they weren't already dead, I not washing my hands after relieving myself would kill them."

Simon made no acknowledgement of my parents being dead, which irritated me, but I'd figured by now that Amy and her friends cared about no one but themselves. Of course it wouldn't trouble this guy that other kids had it worse than he did.

He pushed back his glasses and put his hands in his pockets, swaggering toward me, using his much greater height to his advantage. "Blackwood, why don't you and I make a deal?"

"Why? What for?" I replied, standing as tall as I could.

Simon grinned smugly. He was enjoying this new experience of picking on someone smaller and geekier than himself. I don't think that happened to him often. "You stay away from Clary Fray, and I don't tell people your sister is a lesbian."

"THAT'S what you meant when you told Schafer she's 'not into guys'?"

"Think about it, Blackwood. She dresses like a male, she doesn't have a boyfriend, nor does she show any interest in guys that I can observe. Remember when we walked through the lobby and saw the posters for whatever that movie we're gonna see tonight is—_King of Sparta_? All the other girls were drooling over Trevor McLean's abs, but your sister had no reaction whatever. What else could I have meant by 'she's not into guys'?"

I'd never even thought of Sarah as having an "orientation" before. I'd love my sister no matter what she might be. But if she was hiding something like this, Simon Lewis should not be the first person to know.

"How is it any of your business?" I hissed.

"I told you. You don't want me to broadcast that, and I don't want you looking at Clary."

"You're already dating Amy! What does Clary matter to you?"

Simon chuckled. "Amy's pretty, and she likes my music. But that's where my feelings for her end. Clary, though—Clary's mine. She always has been, even though she doesn't know it yet." As he said this he looked kind of sad.

"How romantic," I snorted. "C'mon, Lewis. I'm only twelve, I'm covered in zits, and I'm barely any taller than her. How could I possibly be a rival to you?"

"Anyone could be a rival to me," he said bitterly. "A caveman who communicates only in grunts is more appealing than me."

This conversation was futile. I pushed open the men's room door and came out right next to the candy/popcorn stand.

Sarah was standing between Amy, Clary, and a girl I didn't recognize but I figured must be the elusive Rachel Elizabeth Dare. Rachel was Sarah's age or slightly younger and gorgeous: great proportions, pale skin, long ginger ringlets, a feisty smile, a cute dash of freckles on her nose, and clever eyes the same catlike shape as Sarah's and mine, but Rachel's were the color of jade.

"Why don't you ever hang with us anymore?" Clary was yowling, sounding near tears.

Rachel began to answer, but Amy cut her off.

"Look. I asked your dad if you'd come, and he said you had 'other plans.' Yet you show up at the movies the same night we do, even to see the same movie! You better have a good explanation, Dare."

"Peace, all of you," my sister intoned. She bent her head so she was eye level with the other girls. "Be careful with your words. Friendships are precious."

_What does she know about friendship?_ I thought. _Her only friend is me. And I'm her brother so I don't count._

"Thank you," said Rachel. "I understand you're Amy's cousin. What's your name?"

"I'm Sarah Blackwood, Rachel. Pleased to meet you."

"And the explanation…?" Clary thundered, tapping her sneakered toe on the carpet.

Rachel looked distraught. "Oh. It's really long, and I doubt you'll believe me."

"Try us," Amy hissed. Behind them, Eric looked at his watch, and Simon emerged from the men's room. I spotted John and Philippa near the theater doors, whispering and sneaking urgent glances in our general direction. Between Amy and Clary we had enough anger issues and poor impulse control to go around. I could see why the Gaunts might worry.

A grungy-looking fellow came up behind Rachel. He was tall with wiry muscles, a good tan, a handsome face and shaggy black hair spilling into his eyes.

Fang was back.

In that case, he'd changed his style a bit—now he wore converse sneakers, cutoff jeans, and a Green Day t-shirt.

He shook his hair out of his eyes, and his eyes were not black but emerald green, even brighter than Clary's.

So it wasn't Fang. But I got the same edgy feeling around this guy. And though I couldn't imagine how, I felt like I'd seen him before.

Amy and company glared at him like he was the cause of all their misery. Rachel smiled at him with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

Sarah's eyes were trained on his face, her expression unreadable. She shivered a little, though it wasn't cold in there.

"Rachel, did you get the sodas?" he asked. "I bought the popcorn and some Junior Mints."

"You used to share your Junior Mints with us!" cried Clary furiously.

Rachel colored nervously. "Um—girls, Eric, Simon, Amy's cousins—this is my friend Percy Jackson—"

Percy didn't seem to hear her. He'd noticed how intently Sarah was studying him. "Holy crap but you've got freckles," he said at last.

Then he walked away.

"I'm sorry," said a sheepish Rachel. "Excuse us." With that she turned and followed him.

Philippa and John finally joined us.

"What a JERK!" Clary exclaimed. "He totally changed her! The Rachel Dare we knew is dead!"

My sister stared at the floor, mouth creased in sorrow.

Why should she be saddened by any of this? She didn't know Rachel. What Percy had said was rude, granted, but Sarah wasn't the type to let a stupid insult like that upset her so.

**...**

_King of Sparta_ had to be the stupidest movie I'd ever seen. The plot was painfully thin, mixing and matching Greek myths and ancient history as the producers demanded it. The script was about as eloquent as the dialogue of your typical comic book. A new horrendous monster emerged every five minutes to messily devour extras and be bloodily destroyed in its turn by the main characters. The film included at least seventy explosions. All the men, particularly the main character, ran around in breastplates molded to their eight-pack abs, or bare-chested. Of course all the women were hot babes in skintight armor or skimpy cotton dresses. AND IT WAS IN 3D!

And, because I am a twelve-year-old boy, I loved every minute of it.

I think most of our party enjoyed it, in one way or another, despite Rachel and Percy sitting two rows ahead. The guys appreciated the nonstop action and lightly-clad females. The girls (excluding my sister) appreciated the nonstop action and lightly-clad males. Philippa had mentioned that the lead actor, Trevor McLean, was Cherokee, as if she thought that might interest Sarah.

It didn't. I don't think my sister enjoyed the film at all.

"Honestly, sis, what's up with you?" I whispered.

She shrugged. "This movie is insulting to anyone who knows anything about ancient Greece. I mean, have they never heard of Lycurgus ? In Sparta, there were almost never love affairs between men and women. All the men and many of the women were child molesters. And where are the Helots ? That's like making a movie about South Carolina in the 1850s with no black slaves. There was nothing glamorous about that time. It was all depravity—nothing to make a blockbuster movie out of."

(Unfortunately, ancient Sparta was indeed a realm of Helot persecution and institutionalized pedophilia. Read Plutarch's _Life of Lycurgus _if you want proof).

"So a little historical inaccuracy in a Hollywood movie makes you cry?"

Sighing in frustration, she took off her red and blue glasses and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I'm not crying."

"Yes you are. I can see it in the light from the screen. What's the real problem, Sarah?"

"I was just thinking about how Mom and Dad must be rolling over in their graves because we wasted a good two hours of our lives watching this garbage. Besides, the 3D makes me sick."

I knew that wasn't it, but she couldn't be blamed for not wanting to tell me here, so for now I just leaned back in my seat and enjoyed the thrill ride.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>If you haven't told me who you think the kid in chapter 13 is, please do so. Thank you. :-)


	16. XII: A Little Night Research

**Special Edition Author's Note**

_Gaia was Framed:_ Well, we're back! Sorry it took so long. It's great to see you all again. Here I am with the Mystery Character from chapter 13 and OC Sarah Blackwood. Hey, Mystery Kid, wanna tell us something about yourself, something that will help our wonderful readers figure out who you are?

_Mystery Kid:_ Ok then. Uh…Yakka foob mog. Grug pubbawup zink wattoom gazork. Chumble spuzz.

_Gaia was Framed:_ *facepalm* Dude, that was _way_ too much information.

_Mystery Kid:_ Also, I have a machine that can turn you into a five-hundred story gastropod—a slug the size of the Chrysler Building! Can I go pelt Magnus with water balloons now?

_Gaia was Framed:_ That's nice. By the way, the Mystery Kid's identity will be revealed in this chapter! Anything you want to say before we resume the story, Sarah?

_Sarah:_ Er…not really. Except don't take anything my brother says as a personal insult. He has some issues.

_Gaia was Framed:_ No kidding! Have you read his blog?

_Sarah:_ Blog? What blog?

_Magnus:_ WHERE'S THAT KID?

_Gaia was Framed:_ Well, Magnus just burst in here, sopping wet and so angry there's smoke coming out his ears. Sarah and I are going to make ourselves scarce so we don't get turned into armadillos. So here at last is chapter 16 of _Tartarus Rising…_

* * *

><p>XII. A Little Night Research.<p>

Late in April or early in May, Marissa made an announcement at the dinner table. "Kids, George and I just learned we're going to have a baby."

"Congratulations," said Sarah warmly. Nervous, I clapped my hands under the table.

I was six years old when Mom had her last kid; Sarah had just turned ten. The baby—a girl named Naomi—was born seven weeks prematurely, and died two months later. We tried to forget what had happened, or to modify the truth so it didn't hurt as much. If you ask Sarah, she'll tell you Naomi was a miscarriage. That's how she deals.

I'd always wondered if Naomi would've survived if Mom had been younger; at the time she was nearing the end of her childbearing years. Marissa was at the exact same age now that Mom was when she had Naomi.

I decided that I couldn't attach to the new baby emotionally, so it wouldn't be so traumatic if the child should die.

"Do you know if you'll have a boy or a girl yet?" Sarah asked.

Marissa shook her head. "No. I'd like to be surprised. Amy? Amy, what's wrong?"

Amy hadn't said a word through this whole conversation. Her kohl-lined blue eyes were fixed with no comprehension on her mother's face.

"How could you?" she suddenly cried.

"Sweetie, this is just what our family needs. It'll draw us together in a way nothing else could."

"Have you forgotten Jenny?"

"Of course not. I couldn't forget or disrespect her any more than you could."

"But you promised—you _promised_—" Amy was standing now, her anger making her thin body sway slightly like a young tree in a bitter autumn wind. "You know what? Forget it. Forget _you_. You promised you'd never replace Dad either, and now look. Why should I put any stock in what you say anymore?"

With that she left the room.

Marissa ran after her. "You come back here right now, young lady!"

I looked at Sarah. "Whoa. Too much estrogen around here. I feel like I'm on _Oprah_."

"Shush," she replied. "This has nothing to do with estrogen. Amy clearly has problems we know nothing about."

I realized we were alone in the dining room.

"Sarah, what did Fang say to you at Dad's funeral?"

She looked perplexed. "Ron, what're you talking about?"

"You know perfectly well."

"Hm." She paused thoughtfully, drumming her index fingertip on the edge of her plate. "He said it to both of us—that he was sorry for our loss, and that he burned tons of calories so he needed to eat a lot. I think he just made that up. He's probably bulimic."

"I know that. What did he say when he met you upstairs at the church? Upstairs _alone_."

"You've got it all mixed up, little brother! I just left the basement to use the bathroom."

"And he followed you."

"Not to my knowledge. I didn't see him."

Her eyes were fixed on the tablecloth. Sarah almost never lied, but when she did, she'd look down, for fear her eyes would give her away.

"So what _were_ you doing up there?"

"Meditating. It was too noisy downstairs with all the people, and I needed to clear my head."

"How come you looked like you'd seen a ghost when I found you?"

"I'd dozed off and had a nightmare."

"You were sleeping standing up, then?"

"No, I fell asleep and woke up a minute or two before you came."

"Why are you lying to me, sister? Why don't you trust me?"

"I swear I'm telling the truth, Ron!" Sarah yanked at her braided hair frustratedly. "Look. I understand that that kid gave you the creeps. He unnerved me too. However, that by itself doesn't mean he cornered me and told me something awful. Just try to forget about him, ok? No matter where we go in this world, we'll meet those types—creeps who skulk on the edges of society, not caring how they might frighten people. Rachel Dare's boyfriend—I forget his name—is another example."

I hadn't forgotten his name, and I doubted Sarah had either.

She concluded, "We just need to accept that most people aren't as smart, nice and well-adjusted as Mom and Dad raised us to be. That Fang kid's parents probably couldn't care whether he lived or died so he dressed and acted that way to get attention. If anything, I feel sorry for him—him, cousin Rodrick, Rachel's boyfriend, Amy, Eric, Clary, Simon, and all those who feel they have to be outrageous in order to be liked or at least not forgotten. No wonder Lady Gaga is so popular now."

**...**

That was all I got out of her that day. And the next day. And the next.

Eventually I gave up.

At least I knew how to keep the nightmares away—not sleeping. Every night I waited till everyone else was snoring in their beds, and then I entertained myself on the Internet.

Unbeknownst to anyone in the household, I had recently set up my own blog, .com. I named it Jorblack's Thought Emporium. The alias Jorblack came from scrambling my initials (O for Oberon, R for Ron, J for James) lopping the _–wood_ from Blackwood, and sticking it together because…I thought it looked cool.

The posts were about whatever interested me at the moment—movie reviews, my sister not trusting me more, the President's environmental track record, and Rihanna. Especially Rihanna.

Brick Heck from Orson had a blog, too, and we started corresponding.

Brick's blog mostly concerned books—old books, new books, comic books, phone books, car manuals, the Bible no one in his family ever read, even trashy romance novels his mom sometimes left lying around. Yet judging from his latest post, something had changed. He spoke of a secret friend who lived in a box of Christmas ornaments in the Heck basement.

I knew that Brick was "special needs"—he could tackle the most complicated book but couldn't connect to anyone or anything, and he whispered to himself. So I assumed the friend in the basement was imaginary, conjured up to compensate for a lack of real friends.

Until the night, sometime in May, that Brick wanted to Skype with me.

**...**

"Hey, pal," I said once everything loaded. "Are you ok? You said in your email that it was urgent that we talk."

"It's extremely urgent," he replied, with no emotion in his face or voice. That was typical for Brick. He wasn't in the small room near his kitchen where the Heck computer was usually located (at least, it was there every previous time we'd Skyped). Behind him I saw messy cardboard boxes on messy shelves or spilling over onto an equally messy pool table; a bare, forlorn light-bulb was fixed to the ceiling. This must be his basement. He wore his rocket-ship pajamas, so it was night in Indiana too. (Changing time zones confuse me to no end).

"Wait," Brick murmured. He got up, crossed the room, and knocked gingerly on one of the boxes. "Calvin? You can come out now…" then he whispered to himself "…come out now."

A head emerged from the box—a boy between Brick's age and mine, with crazy blond hair and a few missing teeth. After he climbed out, they both came back to the computer.

Well then. It wasn't an imaginary friend.

"Hey," said the stranger. "I'm Calvin. I take it you're Ron?"

"Yeah," I replied. "Nice meeting you, Calvin."

"You've read my blog, right?" he asked.

"You've got a blog too? Cool."

"Dude, I was sure you read it. It's .com."

Revenge of the Babysat?

Ok, I had read this blog sometimes. However I didn't take anything on it seriously, considering the writer called himself The Icy Blue Hand of Death.

"Yeah, great blog," I muttered, embarrassed. "So, Calvin, why are you a secret? And why are you living in the Heck's basement?"

Calvin turned to Brick. "Can you make sure the door's locked?" Brick darted silently up the stairs to check.

Calvin continued in a low voice: "I read your blog too. I know this is really weird, but in March _my_ house burned down and _my_ parents died. Just like yours."

"I'm sorry, dude. That's terrible."

"Ron, your parents wouldn't happen to be Patrick and Rebekah Blackwood?"

"How did you know?"

His voice shook a little, as if he might cry. "Well…I did some research while I was on the run, and apparently your mom and dad were corresponding with my dad's law firm. They were planning to publish these top-secret papers about this research corporation called Itex. But someone doesn't want the world to know about these documents, because first your parents were killed, then my parents and the other two guys who were in my dad's firm and their families.

"I had a tiger, named Hobbes, but we were separated in the fire, and I was never able to find him."

"Wait, you had a tiger?" I asked. "Is that even legal? Or…Nah. You mean a stuffed tiger."

"He was real. Some reason everyone said he was stuffed. I think they were just trying to mess with my mind.

"So, I was brought to the firm to collect the personal stuff from Dad's desk and I managed to steal the documents. I was staying at my grandma's house, but she's no fun, so I ran away.

"In April I was living in this car that I'd stolen—long story. The cops were looking for me, so I'd dyed my hair green to throw them off a bit."

"Dude, you can drive?"

"I learned," he shrugged. "I slept during the day and drove at night."

"Where were you going?"

"I wanted to move to Kenya and migrate with the wildebeests. Anyway, I was sleeping in the trunk of the car when _he_ came.

"I woke up feeling a hand over my mouth. There was this guy—about sixteen years old, tall, black-haired, dressed in black. I bit him, but he didn't seem to feel it. Holding me down with one arm, he opened my backpack and rummaged through my stuff. Of course, he wanted the documents. Once he got them he ran away.

"I hopped into the driver's seat and tried to pursue him, which I assumed would be easy, considering I was in a car and he was on foot. Except when he saw me gaining on him, he unfurled these giant wings out of his back, and flew above the trees."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Yeah. He said he was sorry to steal the documents from me, but he knew this girl who needed them more than I did. Once I got internet access again I found out that this dude's named Fang, and he's sort of an online celebrity."

Curses. I knew I hadn't seen the last of that guy.

"I've met him too," I said. "He's evil."

I couldn't imagine how Mom and Dad had made such horrible enemies. I'd never heard of this Itex Company.

"So, what did Fang do to _you_?" Calvin asked.

I told him what happened at Dad's funeral.

"Back up a minute," he said at the end. "What's your sister's name again?"

"Sarah."

"Because the girl he said needed the documents was named Sarah."

Had she been in cahoots with Fang the whole time?

My head reeled.

"Calvin, why did Fang take the documents?"

"I think he works for Itex."

"Did you ever read them yourself?"

"I tried, but most of it was too scientific for me to understand. And your dad's handwriting is totally illegible."

"Why the Hecks' basement? Aren't there more secure places to hide out?"

"I tried old Gammie Heffley's attic, but the place is buried in dust and the food has been there since the dinosaur age. This is actually a pretty good spot. Brick and his sister Sue are the only people who know I'm down here. Sue made my box nice and comfy, and she sneaks me meals. Brick reads to me from the _Iliad_. I love that book."

"Really?"

"Yeah! I never knew there were so many ways to skewer someone's head and make their brains ooze out."

"Granted. How long are you going to stay?"

"A week at the most. Then I've gotta hit the road again."

"Where will you go?"

"New York, New York, of course! To join forces with my fellow Fang hater and Itex enemy!"

We high-fived through the screen.

"Calvin?" Sue whispered as she appeared on the stairs behind him. Her pajamas were pink with fluffy sheep scattered over them. "It's midnight. You and Brick should get some rest." Catching my eye, she waved. "Hey, Ron."

"Great to see you again, Sue. Calvin, we'll stay in touch, ok?"

"Ok."

I wished everyone a good night and logged off.

**...**

It had to be nearly 3 a.m. now. I was dog-tired. But there was something I needed to check out while I knew I had the chance.

Fang had a blog, too. The home page boasted of over twenty-million readers.

The posts were pretty inane, mostly in response to stupid reader comments. Apparently Fang's wings were common knowledge, because some guy wanted a life-size tattoo of them on his back. Fang informed him that would only work if his back was fourteen feet across. Countless girls posted swoony captions on Fang's photos, telling him how inhumanly hot they thought he was.

I cursed under my breath. There were no personal photos on my blog—I was way too paranoid to do that—but if there were, I would not get positive feedback. If anything, I would get lots of "you need a haircut" and "have you tried Proactiv? It works wonders!"

This is how Fang explained his existence:

_Hi everyone. My name is Fang. I'm one of eight known recombinant DNA life forms that are 98% human, 2% bird. We have wings. We can fly._

To prove his point he inserted some photos. One was of himself, in profile, shirtless, _ostensibly_ so one could see where the wings sprouted from his back (under the picture was a link saying "click to read commentary on this image." Nothing could've induced me to do that). The second photo showed a hot girl with dirty-blond hair and the build of a runway model flying among a murder of crows, her arms outstretched and her smile glowing with exhilaration. The third person shown was an extremely tall, pale, skinny redhead with his bare back to the viewer to exhibit the roots of his wings. Everyone's wings were color-coordinated—Fang had the wings of a raven, the other boy's were those of an albatross, and the girl's were stripy brown like some sort of hawk.

I posted the following comment under each photo, just to be nasty:

_Nice job with the Photoshop. It looks real._

Of course, I knew from what Calvin told me that there was no Photoshop involved. Somehow I knew I could trust that kid. At least on this.

So what else did Fang tell every idiot with internet access about himself? Another photo showed him with five—ok, six—fellow mutants. The caption read:

_My friends are (from left) Angel, Nudge, Total, Iggy, The Gasman, and my soulmate, the incredible, beautiful Maximum Ride. Sadly, I no longer live with my friends, and Max and I cannot be together._

Max was the girl from the first photo. Iggy was the red-haired boy. Nudge was a little older than me and really cute, with mahogany skin and chocolate hair. The Gasman and Angel (clearly siblings) were about nine and seven years old respectively, with pale blond hair and super-light blue eyes. Total was a black Scottish terrier with little black wings protruding from his back.

_We are the Flock. There are many pieces of our story we still don't know. Were we normal human children stolen from our parents (or sold to science by them)? Or were we made in test tubes?_

_ To which I say, no matter what happened, "I'm on the right track, baby / I was born this way." BTW, Lady Gaga is a great supporter and friend of ours. Thanks for all your help, Gaga._

_ Anyway. I digress._

_ We were imprisoned in this secret lab in Death Valley, CA. We don't know its name. We just call it "The School." At this "School" we were subjected to unimaginably inhumane "experiments" such as the one in the video below. And if that makes your stomach turn (it should) remember: you don't know the half of it._

Here he embedded a video of his friend Angel being forced to run a maze with electric currents under the floor that shocked her feet whenever she stopped running. Just as if she were a rat.

Those five minutes made me reconsider everything. If this were a hoax, Fang (or whoever was pulling his strings) had no heart.

But how could I believe this?

And how could I not?

I kept reading.

_EDITOR'S NOTE: Ron neglected to transcribe the rest of what he read that night, assuming all his readers were familiar to the events recounted therein. If you do not already know the rest of Fang's tale, consult the _Maximum Ride_ novels by James Patterson or any thorough summary of them. For those of you who would rather hear the story from the Blackwoods, the publisher hopes to release several appendices to _Tartarus Rising,_ at least one devoted to the Fellowship of the Wing, sometime in the coming year. _

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Thank you all for sending me your guesses for the Mystery Kid! That was fun. Thanks for reading and reviewing. ~GwF


	17. XIII: A Day at the Seaside

**Special Edition Author's Note**

_Gaia was Framed:_ Hi everyone! Just adding an Author's Note to let you know that a lot of the dialogue in this chapter is taken pretty much word for word from _City of Bones. _However, this scene takes place on the beach instead of the "all-ages club" Pandemonium, because the Jersey Shore just seemed like a more logical location for it.

_Ron:_ We tried Pandemonium, but my sister got nervous because of the loud music and atmosphere and she kept barfing.

_Gaia was Framed:_ *rolls eyes* Thank you. I'm sure everyone wanted to know that.

_Percy:_ Hey, GwF? When do I appear again in the story and beat the ichor out of all those pesky shadow-hunters/mutants/down-worlders?

_Gaia was Framed:_ Soon, Perseus ole buddy, very soon. Take it away, Ron.

_Ron:_ All right! Here's chapter 17, folks! Thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

><p>XVIII. A Day at the Seaside.<p>

June came, bringing no change except the extreme heat.

The Shore was crowded that summer. Jocelyn Fray (Clary's mom) drove by. She was taking Clary, Amy and Simon to the beach and figured she might as well drive Sarah and me.

I would have been perfectly happy writing on my blog in my room with the shades drawn, and I think Sarah would've been just fine rummaging for Steely Dan LPs and playing them on the fossilized record player in the cold, dark basement. But Marissa would not hear of us staying home. She feared we would turn into hermit recluses.

That's how I found myself lying face up on the beach blanket, wearing sunglasses, tanning lotion (stolen from George) slathered over my arms and torso. Sarah had charged into the waves as soon as we got out of Jocelyn's car. Simon was on my left, reading a manga book. Amy and Clary sat on my right, chatting. .

So I lay there, musing once again about how cute Clary was. Granted, she was three years older than me. But she was also two inches shorter. Simon's threats at Amy's party no longer frightened me; I knew he didn't have the guts to carry them out. As far as I could see, Clarissa Marie Fray was fair game.

Fang still made no sense. Was he for Itex or against it? His blog told one story, but Calvin's account hinted at another. What was Itex, anyway? What did they want? How were Calvin's parents—and my parents—_and my sister_—tangled up with it?

Someone stepped on me.

"Hey!" I yelped. "Watch where you're going up there!"

She was tall, at least as tall as Sarah, and probably the same age. Like my sister, she was thin, with fair skin and long blue-black hair. But while Sarah could pass for a really tall, bony prepubescent boy (which she frequently did), this girl had a model's figure. She wore a wine-red swimsuit, and a long black sarong that emphasized her shapely legs. Wondrous smells twined around her—Herbal Essences, and some high-end perfume.

Who was this?

**...**

"Hey," I said again, trying to make it smooth and deep.

The girl looked down at me. Her face was gorgeous, of course, but it was twisted by confusion. Something about the gaze of her big black eyes told me I'd done something that shook up her plans.

"Um, hello," she murmured. Then she strode away as fast as she could. Her hair streamed behind her like a drop of ink expanding in water.

She hadn't apologized for stepping on me, but she didn't need to. I could forgive someone who looked like that any offense. Suffice to say, she had driven any thoughts of chasing Clary from my mind. I kept watching the strange girl as she disappeared into the throng, looking coquettishly over her shoulder. I found myself wondering what her name was, where she lived, what her interests were, and (most important) whether or not she had a boyfriend. Then I remembered that I was only twelve, at least six inches shorter than her, covered in acne and still capable of singing soprano.

_Enjoy the daydream,_ _Jorblack,_ I thought, _because that's all it's ever gonna be._

As if proving my point, some teenaged guy stepped over our beach blanket, his eyes fixed on that girl. He looked like the type my cousin and her screwed-up friends would hang out with: about ninety-eight pounds, with jagged cobalt-blue hair and eyes the color of antifreeze. Months ago I would've assumed that he wore color-changing contact lenses, but between him, Rachel, Clary and Percy, I was learning that sometimes evolution allows such colors.

(I bring this up so often—as I'm sure you've guessed by now—because I was very self-conscious about the painfully unexciting brown color of my own eyes. Anyway).

This kid would've stepped on me too if I hadn't been sitting up. He didn't acknowledge me or Simon as he walked by, but he flashed a smile at Clary and Amy that made them stop their chatter and stare at him worshipfully as he walked away on the trail of the hot girl.

_Of course she has a boyfriend, Ron. Who, of course, is much older and more attractive than you. Dude, you need to get a hobby. Other than blogging. Something where you can meet nice girls your own age. Maybe there's a 4-H club around here._

"Who was that?" asked Amy breathlessly.

"I have no idea," Clary sighed. "But I'd sure like to find out."

"What are you talking about?" muttered Simon. "I didn't see anyone."

"Didn't see anyone?" Clary repeated. "There was this guy. He was tall and thin and had bright blue hair. And he smiled at us."

"And he was really hot," added Amy.

"You can't expect _me_ to notice that," Simon murmured into his book. "_I'm_ straight."

Was that supposed to be another poison barb about Sarah, to once again discourage me from the pursuit of Clary? I was beginning to wonder if Simon actually had a crush on my sister and tried to hide it this way.

After five minutes in which we all sat around not looking at each other, two more guys passed through in the exact same spot.

"Gentlemen, does this look like a road to you?" I inquired sarcastically.

And then I noticed they carried knives—knives so long they might've been swords.

Oops.

Me and my big fat mouth.

The two intruders looked down at me with disgust.

"We're not here," said the taller of the two primly. There was strong resemblance between him and the hot girl, I realized. They had the same long well-shaped limbs and dramatic coloring. But while she was beautiful, he just looked effeminate. He walked hurriedly away from us.

His buddy, a muscular blond with a deep tan and an arrogant swagger, leaned down and hissed at me. "You never saw us, kid. Got it?"

"Why should I keep your secrets?" I hissed back. I knew it was incredibly stupid to deliberately insult a guy with a big knife, but remember I am a boy on the brink of adolescence, and boys on the brink of adolescence do incredibly stupid things by definition. "What's in it for me? You do know it's illegal to run around with weapons like that? How'd you get past security?"

He didn't deign to answer me. He just got up and followed his girly friend.

As soon as they left, Clary started freaking out. "Did you see the knives they had?"

"I…thought…those…were…steak knives," said Amy slowly and carefully. "Y'know, maybe they were having a barbecue on the beach or something. People do that."

"Who are you talking about now?" asked Simon.

"Those dudes who just passed through!" Clary cried.

"I find it strange that all these people are walking by us, and I don't see any of them," he mused. "Maybe you ladies need to get out of the sun. You're hallucinating."

"I swear they were real, Simon," said Clary. "They were right here. Maybe if you got your nose out of that stupid book, you'd be aware of what goes on in the world."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold it. _You're_ calling _me_ oblivious?"

He sat up and stared at her intently.

Amy tapped her friend's shoulder awkwardly. "Look, I saw them too, but they're nothing to worry about, ok? They're just two dudes with steak knives who are kind of arrogant. I thought they were cute, personally."

_Never mind that they threatened your poor defenseless cousin,_ I thought.

Simon said nothing. His eyes never left Clary's.

She fidgeted a little uncomfortably, before getting up and brushing the sand off her legs. "I'm going to investigate."

"Me too," I answered quickly. Anything was better than lying there in the vain hope of improving my looks. What did I need a hot, tanned, muscled bod for anyway? It's not like anyone was looking at _me._

**...**

Clary didn't look happy to see me when I caught up with her. "What're _you_ doin'?"

"Hey, one of those dudes threatened me, and the chick stepped on my arm. I'd like to give them a piece of my mind too."

"C'mon then."

She brushed through the crowds quickly, keeping the heads of the machete boys in sight. Her red hair shimmered in the white-hot sun.

Yes, despite being distracted by flashier beauties, I was really starting to like this girl.

**...**

We followed the two guys up from the shoreline, onto the boardwalk, and then into an alley between a bookstore and a café.

Sarah would never have done this. She might've demanded an explanation for the knives, but she would probably have tried to alert an authority instead of following the thugs herself. She would've talked Clary out of following them either, or at least tried.

Maybe my sister was the coward of the two of us after all.

Not that I wasn't a bit worried about what I might find, but I felt this lifting in the back of my skull like a curtain being pulled aside on something new…exciting…life-changing.

And that made it nearly impossible to feel afraid.

**...**

We found the guy with blue hair tied to a dumpster by thin ropes that glittered in the slim rays of sun that reached into the grimy shadows.

The girl who I'd thought was so beautiful stood near him with a long whip in her hands and a merciless expression on her face.

The taller of the two other dudes was at the other side of Blue Hair, slim arms crossed over his chest. Now the resemblance between him and the girl was so obvious I knew right away they were siblings.

His friend, who was shorter than him but still drastically taller than me, paced around in front of their captive.

Blue Hair struggled in his bonds. "Nephilim!" he exclaimed, with a few choice curses and guttural snarls that sounded like choice curses in some other language. "I should've guessed!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the guy—I'll refer to him as Blondie from now on—returned. He kicked Blue Hair's ankles. His long knife was like a stream of mercury in underground dark. Despite the record heat that shimmered off the surface of the asphalt, I felt chilled in here, and Clary's arms were covered in gooseflesh.

"Do not waste our time," intoned the skinny guy—I'll call him Milquetoast. "You know many things we don't. Tell them to us."

I snuck a glance at Clary. I figured we'd walked in on a gang war or something, and I hoped we could slip away before we were noticed. But she gave me no acknowledgement. Her eyes were wide and blazing with mixed horror and intrigue. I was afraid to go back without her, both for her safety and mine. Something in me, too, was dead set against leaving just yet.

Maybe the cosmos wanted me to see something here.

Or maybe I just had a death wish.

This was not the last time I'd ask myself that question.

"You'll get no information from me, little half-angels," sneered Blue Hair.

_Half-angels?_ I thought. What kind of gang would name themselves that?

The girl—I'll call her Snow White for now because of her black hair, lily skin and being the "fairest" female I'd ever seen—brought her whip down on Blue Hair's stomach.

Her weapon drew blood—or rather, it drew fluid, the color of ebon and apparently metallic.

Tolkien orcs bleed black, supposedly.

I wondered if being on crack or any of the other drugs gangsters liked would change the color of one's blood, but I figured if they did it would be common knowledge.

Blue Hair gave a raspy scream.

She did it again. And again. And again.

Her eyes were hard and opaque like stones. So were those of her brother and her friend as they watched.

**...**

The Buddhists say "Namaste". "The light in me bows to [recognizes] the light in you."

For the first time I could remember, I saw people who had no light in them to recognize.

There was a time before. But I couldn't remember it.

**...**

At the seventh stroke of the whip, Blue Hair caved.

"I'll tell you everything!" he cried.

Blondie got right in Blue Hair's face, smirking like a predator.

"We've noticed some strange behavior from your kind this summer," he snarled. "There are more of you. You're more powerfully armed and more aggressive. Most of you don't seem afraid of us anymore. Any reason for that?"

Blue Hair grimaced. "Things are stirring," he croaked.

"What sort of 'things'? How are they 'stirring'?" inquired Milquetoast.

"The Infernal Worlds haven't been this busy in centuries," was the reply. "We are massing our armies. We are pooling our resources. We have never been stronger."

Without seeming aware of it, Clary reached out and grabbed my arm as though to steady herself.

Out of the gangsters (if indeed they were gangsters), Milquetoast stood closest to us. Maybe one of us breathed a little louder or made a tiny noise as we shifted our weight from one foot to another. How we got his attention doesn't really matter. But he noticed us at last. Beneath his long black bangs, his eyes widened with alarm.

"Jace—" he whispered.

"The First Mother is on our side," Blue Hair continued. "Your friends the demigods have broken her heart for the last time."

"—they are _not_, I repeat, _not_ our friends—" interrupted Snow White, "even if some of them are obscenely good-looking."

"Let me finish, daughter of Raziel," said Blue Hair. "Soon Death himself will be subjugated. All the entities that were defeated and oppressed by the Olympians and your angel friends and whoever else will be given power to defeat and oppress them. Poor mortals!" He gave a cruel laugh. "They'll be completely annihilated. They'll never know what hit them."

"Who exactly are these entities you mentioned?" asked Blondie.

A psychotic light went on behind Blue Hair's kelly-green eyes.

"Every demon and monster that was ever exiled or killed off," he said at last. "The primordial giants. The Titans. Kronos. And among others, that friend of all shadow-hunters: Valentine."

"Jace—" hissed Milquetoast again.

"In a minute, Alec," said Blondie, sounding annoyed. He turned his attention back to Blue Hair. "You lie. That could never happen."

"I'm telling the truth!" cried Blue Hair in growing apprehension. Blondie started fiddling with his machete-thing like he couldn't wait to plunge it through his enemy's ribcage. "I can help you! I can—I can—I can tell you where Valentine is!"

"We already know where Valentine is," Blondie shot back. The knife found its way under Blue Hair's chin. "He's in Hell. And you know what? You can join him there."

"NO!" cried Clary.

Everybody jumped.

**...**

Blondie—or Jace, as he was apparently called—stared at me and my cousin's friend as though we had two heads each. "This is what you were trying to tell me about, Alec?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Alec. So that was his name. Milquetoast suited him better, if you asked me. "What are they?"

Jace laughed. "Simple. The one with the red hair is what science calls a 'girl'. You've seen girls before. Your sister Isabelle is one." He muttered to himself, "a mundie girl. And she can see us."

"And the other one?" Alec persisted. "What's that?"

Jace looked at me and twisted up his mouth in confusion. "I have no idea."

To Clary, he said, "Why did you interfere with this process?"

"You can't kill him," she replied, nearly weeping with nervousness.

"Why not?" he asked with cool suspicion.

"Because…um…because…you can't just go around killing people."

"Very inspiring speech," I squeaked, finding my voice at last. "And with that thought, we'll leave you—" I grabbed Clary's arm and tried to steer her away, but she wouldn't budge.

"No, stay a moment," Jace drawled. "She's got a point. You can't just go around killing _people_."

"Meaning?" Clary asked, jutting out her chin, trying to look brave.

"Jace!" exclaimed Isabelle. "Be careful!"

"Meaning that's not a person, little girl," said Jace matter-of-factly, cocking his head at Blue Hair. "It might look like a person, and talk like a person, and even bleed like a person. But it's a monster."

"Monster: what the big army calls the little army," I grumbled. Suicidal, I know.

"The hairy one is capable of speech," Jace remarked. "What's your friend, little girl? Some kind of midget sasquatch/dragon hybrid?"

I guess Blue Hair got bored with all this rhetoric because he broke the ropes around him and launched himself through the air at Jace.

I will never forget his scream.

**...**

They rolled on the ground like a yin-yang.

Jace sliced at Blue Hair with his knife while Blue Hair shredded (or attempted to shred) Jace with the claws that had suddenly sprouted from his fingernails.

Jace's two buddies quickly jumped to his rescue. With a flurry of daggers they chopped Blue Hair to death.

Clary and I were rooted to the spot. Though I can't vouch for what was going on in her mind, it was probably very similar to what I was thinking: either these kids had come from the bowels of Hell, or someone had put LSD in our snow cones.

Most disturbing about all this was that once they finished off Blue Hair, his corpse crumbled away into nothingness.

Within sixty seconds nothing was left but a puddle of metallic black fluid.

I really didn't find Isabelle that attractive anymore.

Alec, Isabelle and Jace didn't even look winded at the end of the scuffle.

If anything, they looked like they'd just had a great workout.

Which, I guess, they had.

**...**

"I'll tell the police," I growled, voice mangled like that of a barfing cat.

"Mundie cops?" snorted Alec. "Usually they're only interested if you can show them the body."

I guess the swiftly evaporating puddle of black bloodlike substance didn't qualify.

"What are you guys?" Clary whispered. Her eyes were nearly perfect circles.

"Don't ask what we are," said Jace in a low voice. As he spoke he strode toward Clary, staring at her intently. "Ask what you are. Mundies aren't supposed to see us. So what are you, little girl? Do you have the blood of angels? Have you sung with mermaids and spoken with the Night Children? Are you a daughter of Olympus, perhaps? Or are you a man-made monstrosity like the winged ones who we met scuttling around the sewer system two summers ago?"

"My name is NOT 'little girl'!" Clary spat.

"Hello?" called a slightly familiar voice.

"Who're you guys talking to?" asked another voice, more familiar.

"Ron?" asked a third voice, one I knew as well as my own. "Ron? Clary? What's going on? Are you ok?"

Everybody turned.

Three figures stood silhouetted in the sunlight on the alley edge: Simon, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot; Amy, slurping Pepsi loudly through a straw; and Sarah, who had thrown on some dry clothes. She was wearing a baggy unisex t-shirt displaying a photo of Sitting Bull captioned by the words _Sure you can trust the government!_

Simon scratched his head, sending out a cloud of dandruff, grimacing at Clary. "I heard voices, but now there's no one here."

Isabelle giggled.

Sure it was dark in here, but you could still distinguish shapes, even hair and clothing colors. Was Simon's eyesight really that weak?

"Ahem," said Sarah, dropping her already deep voice an octave. "Will you people please leave these two alone?"

Did she see how their weapons glinted? Or their predatory eyes?

Jace narrowed his eyes at her sinisterly. "We are descended of angels. We don't take orders from you, Dalmatian Boy."

"Beg pardon?" she answered smoothly.

I looked at her for a split second, then back at the three "angel" things.

And they were gone.


	18. XIV: The Wreck of the Sparrow

XIV. The Wreck of the _Sparrow. _

Sarah was born at 7:30 pm on Independence Day sixteen years ago.

With all that had transpired since Independence Day last year, it seemed unnatural that it would come again, despite everything, and grant my sister another birthday. But Time stops for no one. Not even Zeus, though it pains him to admit it.

Although Sarah told us she didn't want any presents, I still got her that Wailin' Jennys CD she liked, and Amy contributed her beat-up old skateboard. George and Marissa gave her a gift card to The Flat Earth Market, the hippie store where my sister bought all her bandanas and political t-shirts.

For her birthday, Sarah wanted to hang out on the beach with me. At the insistence of Marissa she also invited Amy, Clary, Simon and the Gaunts (she'd figured out that Eric kind of liked her, so she was now studiously avoiding him. Girls make no sense). John and Philippa had already made other plans, but Simon and Clary came.

Not for the first time I wished my sister would find some friends of her own. She could do a lot better than Amy's gang. (I think Aunt Marissa insisted on them coming because she thought Sarah would be a good influence or something). I also wished I could find some friends around here. Brick, Calvin, and my cousin Greg still corresponded with me, but they lived many leagues away.

Ah well. I had Hopi. And the people who read my blog (all thirty of them now). Calvin was coming soon. And Brick, Calvin and Greg—my "pen pals" if you will—were a lot better than no "pals" at all.

**...**

We ate at a seaside seafood shack called Amphitrite's. The place was mobbed for the holiday, but the outdoor tables were spaced far apart, so it wasn't too claustrophobic. Warm sea breezes twined around us. Coral-tinged purple clouds floated slowly across the sky, contrasting brilliantly with the innumerable lights of the city.

"Hey! They're playing my favorite song!" Clary exclaimed.

If I listened hard, under the burbling crowd and the rhythm of the breaking waves, I could hear its synthetic, eighties-style beat: "Young Blood" by a band from New Zealand with the ungainly name of The Naked and Famous. Amy played that song at least seven times a day through her iPod dock _and_ her band covered it.

So there we sat—me with my ginger beer and Sarah with her Lifewater on one side of the table, across from Clary, Simon and Amy sharing an extra-extra-large Coke, three straws in one giant paper cup.

Amy's band, The Simonettas, was finally back together, and that sad occurrence took up much of our conversation. Trust me. Everyone else in the Blackwood/Porter household had had too many lovely summer mornings ruined by those girls' tuneless racket. At least now Uncle George's wrath had driven them to rehearse at the keyboard player's house in Brooklyn.

"Clary, do you think you could paint me a new drumskin?" Amy asked.

"What's wrong with the old one?" Simon asked, adjusting his glasses.

Even I had to admit Amy's drumskin was cool. It was a pretty good copy of this famous Renaissance portrait, only on the drumskin, the well-bred Florentine girl had mile-wide eyeliner and green streaks in her hair, and there were words like "RIOT!" and "RAWK ON!" scrawled all over the background.

"Nothing's wrong with the old one," Amy grimaced, "except that She Who Must Not Be Named painted it." We were not allowed to speak the name of Rachel Dare out loud anymore.

"So you want to get rid of the Simonetta logo?" asked Sarah, trying to look interested.

"Not entirely. I'm sure there's another painting by that dude Bashello—"

"Botticelli," Clary corrected.

"Whatever. All the girls in his paintings looked like that, right? We'll just use another painting and you can put different sorts of punk-rock doodles around it."

Clary smirked distantly, like she was already planning it. "I'll start right away."

Rachel and Clary were both pretty good artists, from the little I'd seen of their work. Jocelyn Fray was a painter, too. Somehow I doubted William Dare could draw a straight line.

"What about your band, Simon?" Sarah inquired, for courtesy's sake. "How go things with Sea Vegetable Conspiracy?"

"We're Rock Solid Panda now," Simon grumbled. His band—consisting of him, Eric, Matt, and a handful of other losers whose names always escaped me—never seemed to play any actual music, but they changed their name at least once a week, each new moniker more ridiculous than the last. "Everything's status quo, except apparently this girl Eric knows told him his lyrics are worse than the poems her five-year-old brother gets forced to write for his kindergarten class."

"And this surprised him?" Clary deadpanned.

"My friend is coming to visit," I announced. "I'm gonna be hanging with him, showing him around. So y'all know. You won't see a lot of me for a while."

"How _will_ we ever bear the separation?" said Amy with dripping sarcasm.

"Who's this friend, Ron?" asked Sarah. She stared at me intently. "Do I know this person?"

I knew where her mind was. Or at least, I could be pretty sure.

"Did you catch _Dateline_ last night?" Amy interrupted. The question was addressed to Clary and Simon, of course. Amy never said anything to Sarah or me directly unless it couldn't be avoided.

"With the Bird Kids?" Simon replied, adjusting his glasses. "Yeah, I saw that."

We'd seen it too—George, Sarah, Amy and myself. (Marissa was on bed rest now). But I'm not sure Sarah counted, because after the first commercial break she left and shut herself in her room. Mucho suspicious.

The report itself didn't tell me anything I hadn't read on that accursed blog. The Bird Kids were imprisoned by the corrupt scientists who created them before fleeing and eventually finding a home with the CSM (Coalition to Stop the Madness, a rather vehement environmental activist group) and then fleeing again for no apparent reason.

About half a year ago, Fang had left the Flock. This new bird kid named Dylan had joined them, but he broke up Max and Fang, and Fang (being such a diva) couldn't take it so he got out as fast as his wings could take him.

"All the bird guys our age were so hot!" Clary exclaimed. "Especially the dark, brooding one…what was his name again? Oh yeah—Fang!"

"I can't see how you girls find him so attractive," Simon mumbled. "I mean, he looks like a Ken doll. A goth, gay, emo Ken doll. Wouldn't you prefer a real man?"

"For once I agree with Lewis," I grunted.

Unmoved, Amy reinforced Clary. "Envy is not a flattering color on you, Simon. Fang is gorgeous beyond the lot of mortals. As _Sarah_ could tell you."

My sister looked up from her drink, confused. "What would I know about it?"

Amy continued, "Sarah would know because Fang attended her dad's funeral. And he paid her a great deal of attention."

"Really?" Clary whispered in awe. Simon raised his eyebrows like he was interested but trying to hide it.

Sarah did the last thing I expected: she threw back her head and laughed.

"Oh Amy!" she exclaimed. She gulped down a last chuckle. "I know who you're thinking of. But that kid wasn't Fang. He was just some random local weirdo. I don't know why he was there, but it certainly had nothing to do with me."

"Liar!" cried Amy. "It _was_ Fang. There's no mistaking that face. And when you left the room, he followed you."

Sarah shook her head, still laughing, and gazed at the ocean.

"Somehow I find this hard to believe," Simon remarked, adjusting his glasses.

"Actually, it isn't," Amy replied. She took out her cell phone and flipped through her photos till she found one of Sarah and me from the funeral. I looked like a Geico caveman in a suit, but my sister had been transformed from an androgynous t-shirt activist into a gothic princess.

"Wow," said Clary. "You should wear dresses and eyeshadow more often," she told Sarah, not sounding terribly happy. "So…is Fang as hot in person as he looks on TV?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "I repeat, that boy wasn't Fang, and he didn't pay me any mind. Even if he did, what guy hits on a girl at her dad's funeral? Wouldn't that make him a bit of a jerk? By the way, Clary, thank you for the compliment. But I'm much more comfortable dressing this way." Amy sighed loudly, folded up her cell and put it back in her tote bag.

"And you ladies should also know that Fang and his Flock are a giant hoax," I added, just to be contrary-wise.

"Yes!" cried Simon, punching the air. "For once, I agree with Blackwood!"

"They're nothing but some very convincing CGI and a strategic media racket," I continued. "As of now, it is scientifically impossible to graft DNA from any other species into human embryos and have them come out so perfect. If they were real, they'd probably have feathery skin and beaks."

"Since when are _you_ the science expert?" asked Amy disdainfully.

"Shut up! You flunked biology last year, didn't you?" I shot back. "And—since you have apparently forgotten—my parents were geneticists who knew _everything_ about DNA. They told me a couple years back when the Bird Kids first started making news. When it comes to science, friends of Fang, you would do well to trust my parents more than _Access Hollywood_."

"Have you checked out Fang's blog?" Clary asked Amy brightly. My arguments had apparently been for naught. "I can't believe that Max dumped him! How could she?"

"And how could she like Dylan better?" Amy hissed. "I mean, not that Dylan isn't hot too, but Fang is just…Fang."

"Maybe he left Max…for Sarah," Clary chuckled.

"Perish the thought," Sarah muttered.

"There are these two jerks who keep posting mean comments on his blog," said Amy. "They say he's a fake and a liar and that the whole Flock is a hoax and they should 'have their living wings sawed off and fed to the wild Zondargs of Planet Ahnooie' or something like that."

"Those two are called Jorblack and the Icy Blue Hand of Death," Clary answered. "I've checked out both their blogs. They're both really messed up. And they're definitely jealous of Fang."

"How could they not be?" Amy asked. They both giggled.

Let me clarify a few things, readers: first, Calvin posted the WILD ZONDARG thing, not me. Second, though I couldn't vouch for Calvin (but I doubted it in his case) I was so not, _not,_ NOT, _NOT_, _**NOT,**_ _**NOT**_ jealous of Fang. Sure he was better-looking than me, but dark brooding sex appeal is as dark brooding sex appeal does.

At this opportune moment the waiter finally came with our fish-fillets.

"Hey, that's not the guy who served us earlier," I remarked.

When Amy, Clary and Simon saw who the waiter was, they looked at him like he was some gory half-dead crustacean the ocean had thrown at us.

He was about Sarah's age, and he must've been attractive in the same chiseled Mediterranean way Fang was considered attractive—but his eyes were the bright green of sunlight under sea.

Percy Jackson, Rachel Dare's boyfriend.

**...**

"Um, hi," he mumbled once he got close enough to recognize his customers.

"Hello," Simon muttered coldly in reply.

Percy handed out our food as quickly as he could. "Which of you guys has a birthday today again? Robbie didn't tell me before he went on break."

"My sister does," I said, elbowing Sarah, who was staring sadly at the table for no apparent reason.

He set a cupcake with blue frosting before her. "All baked goods courtesy of my mom. If the rest of you would like some desserts, they can order now."

In voices like ice, Clary, Amy and Simon ordered a banana split and a half. With deliberate cheerfulness I asked for another blue-frosted cupcake.

Percy stuck a candle on Sarah's cupcake and lit it. "So, how old will you be?"

"Sixteen," she murmured.

"Well, many happy returns of the day, then," he mumbled with an awkward smile. "I'll be sixteen in a little over a month. What's your name again?"

"Sarah." She looked like she might cry.

"Why do you ask?" I cut in. After what apparently happened the last time some reasonably attractive guy introduced himself to my sister with food in hand, I wanted to make it clear anyone who wanted to hurt her or something would have to get past me.

Percy still looked at Sarah quizzically, like he was straining his memory. "No reason. I just feel like we've met before."

"You met at the movie theater on Amy's birthday," Simon grunted.

"Before that." Percy turned red as ketchup.

As he turned to leave, Sarah looked up and smiled at him with sudden composure.

"Thank your mom for the cupcakes," she said.

**...**

After finishing supper and paying, we decided to walk down to the harbor and watch the fireworks. We had a 9:30 curfew.

Amy and Simon strolled on ahead. Sarah walked by herself, staring softly at the sand. Clary had to stop and retie her shoelaces.

"Ron, could you stay a moment?" she asked.

I was shocked—flattered, even. This was the first time she'd ever addressed me by name.

"You wanna talk about what we saw back in June?" I inquired.

"Yeah."

With both her sneakers securely tied, we set off down the beach, keeping the others in view but not trying to catch up with them. The light from the fiery sky was gradually decreasing, while all the cold artificial lights from the city were blinking awake. People walked past in their swimsuits, enjoying the smooth salt-scented wind.

"How would you explain it?" Clary asked me. "Y'know, the guy turning into some kind of monster and then exploding into a pile of dust and ink."

I shrugged. "I can't imagine. I know sometimes people who have seen unspeakable crimes concoct outrageous stories to deal with them. But if that were the case, why would you and I come up with the same story? We haven't discussed it together since it happened."

"So it must have been real. What do you think they were, then? Jace, Alec and Isabelle."

"Uh…" I trailed off.

What _did_ I think they were?

Clearly not human, or not entirely human.

Mutants? Perhaps. Fang kept his wings concealed.

What other possibilities were there?

Something gnawed on the back of my mind whenever I thought of them, underneath the fear and the revulsion…familiarity. Like somewhere on the great spiderweb of life, there was a strand, thin and weak but still there, connecting them to me and me to them directly.

What could explain it?

Did Clary get the same feeling?

"Is it true that Fang was at your dad's funeral?"

"Yep." I sighed.

"Why did Sarah lie about it?"

"She doesn't like Fang."

"How could she not like Fang?"

"I could fill a book with all the reasons _I_ don't like him—"

"But he's _sooo_ hot!"

"What's that to me? I'm a guy. If anything, his 'hotness' annoys me. What Sarah's problem is, I'm not sure, but I have this theory that when he followed her and pulled her aside—which he did—he told her something. Something so terrible she couldn't even tell _me_."

"I find it hard to believe that Fang has a mean bone in his body." She made a tipsy little smile, probably thinking about what beautiful bones Fang had or some such nonsense. "I'm sure he meant your sister no harm. I mean, I never saw how she looks when, y'know, she looks like a girl, and she's actually really pretty!

"My point is, I think Amy might've been right about your sister and Fang. Words cannot describe my jealousy."

"You mean he…_likes_ her or something?" _Please, Jesus,_ I thought, _send us a nuclear apocalypse before you let that creepy subhuman have romantic thoughts about my sister._

"Whatever. He wouldn't hurt her. So what could he have told her that was so upsetting?" She turned her eyes on me suddenly; they were hard, piercing emeralds. "What is it about you? You and your sister. You're…weird."

"We were homeschooled. Of course we're weird."

"Granted. But that's not what I meant."

"Then what do you mean, exactly?"

"Didn't you tell us about half an hour ago that your parents were geneticists?"

"Yeah…"

"Ron, has it never occurred to you that maybe Fang sought you guys out about your parents?"

I stopped in my tracks.

"Fray, that was brilliant. Why didn't I think of that?"

She shrugged. "Maybe your mom and dad were involved in Itex or something."

That I could not believe. My parents would never have worked for a big corporate monster like what I understood Itex to be (there were so many scandals surrounding that company the Bird Kids were just the icing on the cake).

**...**

Fireworks reflected on the ocean, illuminating the ships we were exploring. We were far from the vessels that were still seaworthy, instead hanging around the old tubs that no one would miss if they sank to the bottom. This might strike some as unsafe, but everyone in our group seemed to think it was fun.

When Clary and I caught up with the others, Simon shot me a suspicious glance. I stuck my tongue out at him and climbed on one of the ships. The paint had nearly peeled all the way off its side, but I could read the outline of what must've been its name once: the _Sparrow_. I thought of Captain Jack and chuckled.

"God but this thing smells," Simon grumbled.

"Wouldn't it be funny if we figured out how to run this thing and sailed away?" Amy joked.

"I don't think the poor old _Sparrow_ will ever sail again," said Sarah, spreading her hands to take in the whole falling-apart boat.

Something about the ocean seemed off to me. I'd never seen it for real until we moved to New York, and of course the sheer expanse of it was amazing and whatever, but there was something deeper than that.

Sarah came up next to me, leaning against the railing, her eyes troubled.

"Does the water creep you out too?" I asked, in a low voice so the others couldn't hear.

"Yes, Little Brother," she replied.

"I mean, it makes no sense—I don't know what I'm afraid of—"

My sister put her hand on my shoulder. "I think…I know this will sound weird…I think we feel like the sea used to be our friend, but now it has forgotten us."

Somehow I knew she wasn't talking about the ocean at all.

And then the ship blew up.

**...**

Flames lit the dark, filthy water, glowing along the edges of us and the bits and pieces of rotting old boat around us. Amy, with her heavy makeup and partially-turquoise hair, could've been a mermaid. Clary's billowing ginger hair could've been part of the fire.

I felt the explosion's gravity tugging at me, but with whatever strength I had I swam against it. _Push for the surface, Jorblack! Push! PUSH!_

Was this the end?

Sarah put her arms around me and kicked upward hard.

We surfaced first and yanked ourselves onto the dock. Then Clary popped up. We all lowered our hands to take Simon from Amy's arms. Apparently he couldn't swim against the tug and hold on to his glasses at the same time, so she'd had to steer him up like Sarah had steered me. Once we'd gotten Amy out we sat there, sopping wet and scared as Hades, watching the explosion die away as the fragmented remains of the _Sparrow_ went under.

"Roll call," my sister croaked, slowly standing up. "Simon?"

"Here," he coughed.

"Amy?"

"Here—just barely."

"Clary?"

"I'm here."

"Ron?"

"Safe."

"Any injuries?" Sarah asked.

Simon and Amy had a few cuts from the floating debris. Sarah herself had been hit by a large chunk of ship and her right leg felt terrible. Clary and I were unhurt.

"I should've known this was way too dangerous," Sarah muttered. "I'm sorry, everyone."

"So much for independence," Amy grumbled, shooting a rude gesture at the fireworks above. "I doubt my mom will ever let us stir outside without her again."

Simon grinned foolishly. His stringy brown hair looked even stringier when it was dripping wet and plastered to his scalp. "That was the most fun I've had since Eric painted himself green for his sister's birthday party."

Clary gaped at him. "Simon, are you crazy? We could've died."

"Let's go," Sarah suggested.

I put a hand on her arm. "No. Wait."

Clambering up a nearby dock were two human figures. One was gigantic, at least six feet tall and bulging with muscle. The other was smaller and thinner, but by no means a wimp. Both were definitely male.

"That was great!" one of them exclaimed.

"But that thing was tiny," said the other. "How many of those would we need to take out the Princess Andromeda?"

"Oh my god," Amy hissed. "They did it."

She produced a flashlight from her bag (which she had somehow managed to hold onto) and shone it on them. "Who are you? Why did you do that?"

The bigger guy had blazing amber eyes, dark brown skin and close-cropped hair.

The smaller guy was Percy Jackson.

Simon put his right hand over his left, paddled with his thumbs, and mumbled, "Awkward."

Percy and his friend came over. We all stood up. When they came close I noticed something unexplainable: they'd been in the water, but neither of them was wet.

"We didn't know anyone was on the _Sparrow_ before we blew it up," the big guy mumbled.

"Might I ask why you're playing with explosives in the first place?" Sarah asked.

"Maybe we should ask why you were poking around these abandoned boats," Percy replied, staring at her intently. "Did someone send you on an errand here?"

"No," my sister replied evenly, returning his stare. "No one sent us. We came for fun."

"For fun," Percy repeated. "'Fun' as in 'following the orders of your master, Kronos, so he doesn't kill you'? 'Fun' as in 'spying on the enemy demigods who defend Camp'?"

His friend tapped him on the shoulder. "Percy, chill! I think they're just mortals."

Percy cursed. "I forgot to put up the damn Mist!"

"This gets better all the time," Amy snarled. "Just what are you, Percy Jackson? A gangster? A terrorist, maybe?"

"And what have you done to our friend Rachel?" Clary jumped in.

"Let's just leave," Simon mumbled.

Sarah said grimly, "Percy, I think you and your friend should explain to us what's going on. We're all concerned about Rachel."

"I don't need to explain _anything_ to _you_," Percy shot back. "Where did you come from?" he asked my sister in a low voice, stepping closer to her with his fists clenched. "And why do you act like you know me?"

"Percy," his friend interrupted. "That's enough. Why don't you go collect our equipment?"

Percy stormed off into the shadows.

His friend remained. "I recognize you three," he said. "You're Amy, Clary and Simon, Percy's mortal girlfriend's friends."

"Have you guys been spying on us?" Simon asked.

"Rachel does have Facebook, you know," came the reply. "But I don't know these two."

"Who are you?" Sarah enquired.

The guy pondered for a moment. "Call me Beckendorf."

"I'm Sarah," said my sister carefully, "and this is my brother Ron."

Beckendorf continued, "Listen…I can't tell you what exactly is going on, why Percy and I need to blow up ships. But I can tell you we mean no harm. We're just trying to…stop a war. Don't speak to anyone about what happened here tonight. It could be the death of everyone—you guys and us."

With that he turned and vanished into the dark, leaving the five of us standing there stupidly.

If we weren't still soaking wet, we would've wondered if we'd dreamt the whole thing.


	19. XV: Of Djinn and Databases

XV. Of Djinn and Databases.

Uncle George was in his office when Amy, Sarah and I finally came home. He was slaving away at some papers, cursing himself under his breath.

"Good night, Uncle George," said Sarah nervously, probably anticipating he'd ask why we were soaking wet.

"G' night, Unc," I added. Amy muttered something unintelligible.

George grunted disinterestedly.

Apparently he didn't notice the saltwater puddles we left in our wake.

**...**

The three of us reasoned it would do no good to make such an appearance before Marissa, who would not only notice, but worry considerably.

"We'll tell her tomorrow, though," Sarah said. "I'll take responsibility, if it makes you guys feel any better. But she deserves to know that we did something dangerous."

"What did we do that was dangerous?" I cried. "How were _we_ supposed to know some gangsters were going to blow that thing up?"

"We shouldn't have been exploring that part of the harbor anyway," my sister explained. "There are other things that could go wrong in places like that. And don't shout; she's only five doors away, and these walls are thin."

"Let's not tell her," Amy suggested. "She's just gonna totally freak out. I mean, usually when she freaks out she just forbids me to leave the house and I just slip out the window and hang with the Gaunts and then she gives up and that's the end of it. But now if she freaks out, she might…y'know."

Another thing we were not allowed to mention in Amy's presence was her mom's pregnancy. If you even said the word "baby" around her, she'd storm out of the room. When a commercial for Gerber's soft food came on, she'd change the channel.

"For once, I agree with Amy," I stated.

**...**

Of course, Sarah went ahead and told Marissa the next morning anyway.

That was just as well. Apparently Simon and Clary had told their folks (under pressure) that we'd run afoul of hoodlums in some seedy stretch of the harbor and had taken an unexpected dip. So our whole party was punished with a seven o'clock curfew for the rest of the month.

"We should've made an agreement!" I grumbled. "If any of us got asked, we should've said we just decided to hop into the ocean clothes and all."

**...**

I spent the rest of July restless.

I couldn't get Percy and Rachel and Beckendorf and Alec and Isabelle and Jace out of my mind.

Nor could I swallow the feeling that they were somehow connected to Fang.

And that I hadn't seen the last of any of them.

Gods know what we would've witnessed if we'd been allowed to prowl the streets at dusk.

_As far as I know,_ July passed with no further incident.

**...**

The night the _Sparrow_ exploded, I Skyped with Calvin once again.

My friend was creeping his way to New York. He'd left his latest stolen car (a red Cadillac taken from right under the dealer's nose, so he claimed) in a ditch in West Virginia, and continued his journey on foot. Currently he was hiding out in the attic of a Pennsylvania Amish farmhouse. He'd assured me he would draw no attention to himself and get out of there as soon as possible, but I still worried. I could see it all too well: Calvin descending the ladder as Farmer Lapp's daughters came to milk the cows, grinning sleazily, running his hand through his haystack hair. "_Helloooo_, ladies…"

Right now it was nighttime. Calvin's face was illuminated by a candle. He sat cross-legged with a skinny orange barn cat on his lap. Behind him was a window, through which I could see the lights of the homestead.

"When can I expect you?" I asked.

He scratched his head, snowing dandruff on his shoulder. "With any luck, by the last few days of August."

"Where will you stay? I mean, this house is really big and easy to hide stuff in, but my uncle and aunt have this nosy old lady housekeeper who smells like cigarettes. Wouldn't want her to catch you. She's not noted for her ability to keep secrets."

Calvin grunted, deep in thought. "Hmm. You live next door to a djinn family, don't you?"

"To a _what_ family?"

He rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Jorblack. You know what a djinn is. You blogged about the _Arabian Nights_ three weeks ago."

"How come _you_ know I live next-door to a djinn family and _I_ don't?"

"Very easily, my friend," he smirked. "The Paranormal Database for the Metropolitan Area."

"And that is…?"

"This awesome website maintained by this guy in New York. He's got every kind of creature labeled in here, along with what identity they live under and where they can be found. You mentioned your neighbors had the last name of Gaunt, so to satisfy my curiosity I typed Gaunt into the search engine, and guess what? Layla Gaunt is a jinni. So are her kids, Philippa and John."

Wow. Djinn, according to the legends, were made of fire. No wonder Philippa and John always seemed to have a burning fever. (No wonder Layla was such a hot mom).

"Why do you bring this up?"

"I'm wondering if maybe the Gaunts will harbor me. My first choice was Camp Jack Kelley, but the Database says they wouldn't let me in. I don't think I'm a demigod."

"Back up. Camp what again?"

"Camp Jack Kelley. Safe haven for Hellene demigods—or at least, it was safe until last summer, when armies of _something_—the database doesn't say what—invaded and killed some people. It's where they train for monster-slaying and other useful skills. They call it Camp Half-Blood now. I like Camp Jack Kelley better."

"What exactly is a Hellene demigod?"

"Why are you playing dumb today, Jorblack? You know what a demigod is. You compared Virgil and Ovid on your blog back in May. You'd never make sense of those poems without knowing the fundamentals of Greek mythology."

"So now the Greek gods are real?"

"You bet ten bucks. They live in the sky above the Empire State Building, if you believe it."

"I don't."

"I'm not sure I do either, but that's what the Database says. If it doesn't work out with the Gaunts, maybe some Nephilim would let me train with them. According to the Database, the Nephilim teach everything the demigods do, but they're not quite as exclusionary."

"Aren't the Nephilim the half-angel dudes in the Bible?"

"Yes. Good for you." Calvin made his voice deep like an announcer on TV. "Ron—gradually, he catches on."

"Ha-ha."

He lowered his voice. "But you should know: our mutual friend might be on to us."

"Our mutual friend" was our code name for Fang.

"Oh snap. What makes you think that?"

"Read his blog. I think you'll see what I mean." He looked at his watch. "It's 11:50. I'd better get some sleep if I want to be on the road tomorrow."

"Great. And Cal—do you know who runs this Database thing?"

He looked puzzled. "Now that you mention it…I have no idea."

**...**

Here's what Fang had written that made Calvin suspicious:

_Hey all. _

_ I'm typing from the back of a pickup truck somewhere in West Virginia. The old guy driving is delivering bales of hay to his brother's farm. I'm nestled among the hay bales. He has no clue I'm here. He has some stupid country-western ballad blaring on the radio. I'm seriously tempted to jump out, unfurl my wings, and give the hayseed a little scare. _

_ But I digress._

_ My work is almost done. _

_ When it's all finished, I'll fly to New York, to give Sarah Blackwood her parents' papers. _

_ I haven't been able to stop thinking about her. She's a great girl: she's diplomatic to her nasty cousin, gracious to all adults, kind to little weirdoes like Brick Heck, and healthily cautious regarding yours truly. But I don't need to tell you this, readers, because as you've pointed out, I mention her at least three times a week._

_THAT'S why I talk about her so much. Contrary to what some of you seem to believe, I do NOT have a crush on her. I have NOT forgotten Max; my love remains unchanged. The feeling I have for Sarah is different—to quote the old Grateful Dead song, she seems to be "a cog in something turning." _

_In response to StarliteChick7912's question, I think Sarah might have one sibling. This pimply kid with horrible hair was hanging out with her at the funeral. Not sure if it's a boy or a girl. It might not have even been related to her. At any rate, I don't think the sibling is that important._

_My plan is we all meet up in New York: me, Sarah, my charming fellow mutants who so kindly gave me their contact info, and any of you great fans who want to help. Right now I'm trying to think of a central location in or near the City where we could gather. Once we're all together we can invade the Institute, striking a blow to the power of Itex. Anyone with ideas, keep me posted._

_BTW, can TheIcyBlueHandOfDeath1986 and Jorblack the Torchbearer please knock it off with the inane hate comments? Thank you._

_Fly on,_

_Fang_

I'm not sure what made me angriest: a) that Fang had stolen my parents' documents and was using them as the linchpin in his megalomaniac plan, b) that he was also using my _sister_ as a linchpin in his megalomaniac plan, c) that he described me as a "pimply kid with horrible hair" on the World Wide Web, or d) that he'd published my sister's name on the World Wide Web when we had so many enemies. Not to mention his megalomaniac plan was (from what he'd written) incredibly stupid.

Whatever it was, I was annoyed enough to read no further that night.

**...**

By the way, the song Fang quoted was called "Woodstock." It was written by Joni Mitchell and became a hit for Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. The Grateful Dead had nothing to do with it.


	20. XVI: Interview with a Demon Hunting Jerk

**Special Edition Author's Note**

_Jace:_ Readers, this is by far the best chapter yet of _Tartarus Rising._

_GwF:_ I'm glad you like it, but why is it "by far the best"?

_Jace:_ Because IT'S ALL ABOUT ME! Duh!

_GwF:_ Granted. But look at the title: "Interview with a Demon-Hunting Jerk." I don't think it shows you in a flattering light.

_Jace:_ So? Ron is the most unreliable narrator in history.

_Ron:_ Pick on someone your own size, Wayland.

_GwF:_ Jace, since you're already here annoying me, can I ask you a question? Who would you like to play you in the _Mortal Instruments _movie—fan favorite Alex Pettyfer, or Jamie Campbell-Bower, who actually got the part?

_Jace:_ Neither. They're both way too ugly.

_Ron:_ And the role of _me_ would be obviously be played by—

_Jace:_ Danny DeVito?

_Ron:_ CHRIS HEMSWORTH, WISEGUY!

_GwF:_ I'd pick Campbell-Bower if I were you, Jace. He actually kind of looks like you. He's got the psycho grin and wild Kurt Cobain hairstyle thing down pat.

_Jace:_ MY HAIR DOES NOT LOOK LIKE KURT COBAIN'S!

_Ron:_ Speaking of dead rock stars, this chapter was inspired by, and contains lyrics from, the song "All Along the Watchtower", written by Bob Dylan, performed by Jimi Hendrix. Y'all should listen to it; it's the best rock song ever IMHO.

_GwF:_ This chapter also contains lyrics from "The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny" by Lemon Demon and "Losing Grip" by Avril Lavigne. Also, no offense to people who write _Pokémon _or _Custom Bionicle _fan fiction; I think you guys are awesome but Ron is a self-identified "intellectual snob." And read Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar, _it contains many of the best quotes in the English language. Without further ado, here's chapter 20 of _Tartarus Rising._

* * *

><p>XVI. Interview with a Demon-Hunting Jerk.<p>

On August 21st, the Simonettas got a gig playing at some obscenely wealthy classmate's birthday party.

That day was too hot to stir out of doors. I lay on my bed with Hopi at my feet, reading the _Complete Works of Shakespeare_ with all the interest I could muster. Much as I loathe the Bard's romances and comedies, his historical Roman tragedies are pretty good.

Right now I was wondering, if my parents had to give me a strange Shakespearian name, why not Brutus? He was a lot cooler than Oberon.

I was in the first scene of Julius Caesar, Act II. Brutus is awake at night, debating with himself whether to join Cassius and betray his best friend, or stick with Caesar and betray his beloved Republic. Just before his fellow conspirators enter, he says something that caught my eye:

_I have not slept. _

_ Between the acting of a dreadful thing _

_ And the first motion, all the interim is_

_ Like a phantasm or a hideous dream:_

_ The Genius and the mortal instruments _

_ Are then in council; and the state of man,_

_ Like to a little kingdom, suffers then_

_ The nature of an insurrection._

A "genius" was the ancient Roman equivalent to a guardian angel. But what could the "mortal instruments" be?

Not knowing why, I underlined the passage in pencil, and it lingered in my head for a long time afterwards.

**...**

In fact, it so lingered in my head that it prevented my absorbing any more of the play at the moment, so I bookmarked the page, laid the book aside, climbed sluggishly off my bed and dragged myself down the hall in search of something to do.

Amy's door was open and her room was vacant. For no reason, I slipped into it.

Her furniture was so harshly colored (black, red, orange, hot pink and lime green) that it hurt my eyes. The walls were only a slight improvement. Nothing stresses a person out quite like having posters of Flyleaf and Tokio Hotel staring at you.

There was a scrapbook sitting on her bed. Because I have no respect for other people's property, I began to leaf through it.

At first I found nothing of note. There were many pictures of Amy having fun with her friends, especially the three gingers: Rachel, Philippa and Clary. There was an awesome photo of Eric encased in green paint from head to toe at a party with a bunch of younger kids. (If I ever needed to blackmail him, I knew what to use. Mwa-ha-ha.)

There were magazine clippings about her favorite bands and celebrities-the Bird Kids among them. This included a quiz from that determined whether you were more compatible with Fang, Iggy or Dylan; guess who Amy got. Naturally I turned the page as quickly as possible, then grabbed the hand sanitizer off her nightstand and doused my hands with it.

Going deeper into the scrapbook Amy's friends disappeared from the photos. In their place were other kids I didn't recognize. The setting was no longer NYC, but some lovely place with a lot of mountains, lakes and forests. She herself looked about ten years old in these pictures. Appearing constantly was a six-or-seven-year-old girl with short auburn hair, who carried an American Girl doll everywhere. I wondered who she was.

And toward the back of the book were newspaper clippings of the Twin Towers falling.

"The hell do you think you're looking at?" someone snarled behind me.

**...**

"Um, hi, Amy," I chuckled nervously, closing the scrapbook and turning to face her. "Sorry. I had no clue there was personal stuff in there."

"Oh really," she spat.

When I saw her I nearly had a coronary. Her hair was spray-dyed blood red from root to tip. Glittery purple, turquoise and black makeup was smeared all over her eyelids. Her lips were sparkly purple too. Her turquoise leggings were so shiny I thought they were armor at first (which just shows you where my mind was).

I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Cuz, I hate to break this to you, but guys don't actually find the colorblind raccoon look that attractive."

"Like I'll take your word for it, Haystack Head," she snorted. "So what is your excuse for snooping in my highly personal scrapbook?"

"I thought Eric had left his poems and prophecies folder here by accident."

"It's black with pink hearts and skulls on it, covered with glittery letter stickers. I can totally see how you'd think it was Eric's." She took the scrapbook and stuffed it under some clothes in her drawer. "Maybe I just need to be more careful where I leave the thing," she muttered. "What were you doing in my room, anyway?"

At this moment Sarah appeared in the doorway. "I heard raised voices. Everything ok?"

"Your brother was snooping," said Amy primly.

Sarah scowled at me. "Ron, that's not kind."

I shrugged, tilting my head in Amy's direction. "She's not kind either."

Sarah's eyes widened as she noticed Amy's getup. "That's…quite an outfit you got there, cousin."

"This girl Allyson Kaiser from my school is having a birthday party and she hired The Simonettas to play for the evening. I can't stand Allyson—she's this horrible preppy cheerleader—but hey, we each get fifty dollars."

I drew in a breath. That was an awful lot of money to pay some crabby emo girls to play Adam Lambert songs and make them sound even worse than the originals.

(I was still trying to adjust to actually living in an economy. George was wealthy enough, but Allyson's folks must be richer than God.)

"You two can be roadies," Amy stated. I got the impression she'd take the drumsticks to us if we refused.

**...**

One job that always sounded fun to me is being a roadie for a real band. I mean, they get to party with the band and the groupies, but they don't get hounded by paparazzi or get anything thrown at them while they're trying to perform. I bet guys who used to be roadies for The Who or Aerosmith could fill volumes about those wild and crazy times they had.

But the key phrase is real band. Even if The Simonettas made it big, they'd never qualify with me. What's the glory in being a roadie for Paramore, I ask you? You'd never do anything but run to the drugstore to buy more hair products.

"What're you standing there looking stupid for?" Amy grumbled at me as she pushed several cylindrical bags down the hallway. "Earn your keep, will you? Have a drum." She kicked one of the cylinders at me and handed me a cymbal on a stick. She knocked on Sarah's door. "I loaned your sister some clothes of mine she could wear. Can't wait to see how she looks."

The door opened. My sister held some folded clothes between her elbows.

"Thanks for the loan of these clothes, Amy, but I don't think I'll need them." Smiling, she handed the clothes to a very perplexed Amy.

Now you could see she had on huge khaki cargo shorts that went past her knees. She wore a red bandana around the circumference of her head.

Her baggy t-shirt had an old sepia photo of some Diné dudes with rifles. The caption said _Homeland Security—Fighting Terrorism Since 1492._

Now it was Amy's turn to cringe. "You can't go to Kaiser's party dressed like that. They'll think you're some kind of…" She trailed off, trying to figure out what exactly they would think.

Sarah shrugged. "They can think what they like. I'm not changing."

Amy rolled her eyes and stomped downstairs. "Just help me with my drums and stay out of sight, okay?"

**...**

"Hey Mom?" Amy knocked on the door of Marissa's bathroom. "I'm going to Allyson Kaiser's."

"Who's your ride?" came the reply.

"Simon. He's bringing Eric and Clary too."

Behind the door, Marissa grunted like she wasn't sure she liked that. "Are Sarah and Ron coming with you?"

"Yes."

"Okay then. Come back at 10:15, NO LATER."

Uncle George was coming up the stairs just as we were coming down. He studied us three adolescents, each scary-looking in their own way, each carrying large circular objects in our hands or on our backs. Especially he studied Amy.

"Where in hellfire do you think you're going dressed like that, young lady?" he asked, in a tone of voice that implied he really didn't want to know the answer.

"I'm…in a play," said Amy coolly. "We're putting on a play for my friend's party."

"I see. What is the play?"

"The Little Mermaid. I have the lead."

"Why are you taking the drums?"

"It's a musical—a goth rock opera, more like it."

Outside, a car horn squawked.

"Just don't play your wretched music in this house and I'm happy," George hissed. "There's your ride. Have fun."

Amy ran downstairs. Trying to sprint after her I tripped and almost fell over. Sarah came up behind me to steady me.

Our uncle tapped her on the elbow. "Keep an eye on Amy for me," he said. "Make sure she behaves herself."

**...**

We rode to Allyson's house in Simon's hideous banana-colored minivan. The thing smelled like death—I mean, it smelled worse than the "Bachelors' Room" at Gammie Heffley's house, and I hadn't thought_ anything_ could smell that bad. Apparently Rock Solid Panda—oops, they were Lawn Chair Crisis now—ate most of their gig-night meals in here. I sat on something small, cold and wet that turned out to be a tomato slice from a sub. I was stuck with a bright yellow mustard stain on my butt for the rest of the evening.

Eric's hair was dyed all pink that day.

I didn't ask. I didn't want to know.

He had his iPod on some kind of dock. He was playing this stupid song about what happened when all the monsters and superheroes of sci-fi geekdom slugged it out on the streets of Tokyo. The refrain went:

_This is the ultimate showdown of ultimate destiny_

_ Good guys, bad guys and explosions as far as the eye can see_

_ And only one will survive_

_ I wonder who it will be_

_ This is the ultimate showdown…_

Then again, I can't risk being too hard on it. Calvin might've written the lyrics.

**...**

Sarah, Clary and I helped Amy set up her drums in the Kaisers' basement, which was furnished like the lobby of a five-star hotel and roughly the size of Giant Stadium. The place was crawling with more teenagers than I'd ever seen in one place before.

I nearly wet myself in terror.

"'S'up, Fray?" asked one of the girls. Later I figured she was Michelle, the lead singer, but right now she didn't look like anything I'd ever seen. She had on this bright yellow strapless sundress with a shiny skirt. She had thick black stuff on the edges of her eyes, and glittery yellow stuff on her eyelids, so she looked like she had two fat twin bumblebees stuck on her face. Her brown hair was messily piled atop her head.

"I'm ok, Bernstein," Clary replied.

"You're working on that new drumskin, right?"

"I've started. It should be ready by Halloween."

The yellow monster turned to my sister, who was setting the cymbals in place. "Who's this?"

"My step-cousin from Arizona," Amy grunted. "The other one is around here somewhere."

"I heard that," I trilled. "Don't talk about me like I'm not here."

"When I look up, you'd better not be," was Amy's answer.

She didn't need to tell me twice.

As I fled the stage, the other Simonettas looked at me like I had three heads. I stationed myself nearby until Sarah slunk away from them.

"I guess I needed to see them all together and dressed for a gig to get it," she remarked when she joined me.

"Get what?"

"They have a gimmick. Look at them closely."

I did. The bassist wore a blue t-shirt with an Apple logo on it and bright yellow skinny jeans, lips smeared blood red, her black hair tied back. The keyboard player had a bleach-blond pixie cut and wore a short light blue dress, lace stockings and translucent wedge shoes. The guitarist kept her dark blond hair out of her face with a little plastic tiara: her outrageous getup consisted of a strapless blue sundress and blue fingerless gloves. All of them wore a downright frightening amount of eye makeup.

Then there were Amy and Michelle. Michelle's microphone was shaped like a red rose.

"What's the gimmick? The light receptors in their eyes are busted?"

"No." Sarah smirked. "They're punk-rock Disney princesses. Amy's the Little Mermaid, Katie is Cinderella, Ivy is Snow White, Lisa is Sleeping Beauty, and Michelle is what's-her-name…the girl from Beauty and the Beast. It's actually pretty funny."

"Ha! Serves Disney right!" We high-fived. I know this might confuse some people, but honestly—if you're half Amerindian, how would you like the film company thanks to which most of the people you meet think Pocahontas was this scantily-clad babe who had a steamy romance with the equally photogenic "Captain John Smith"?

(As if. She was about sixty years younger than him, and he was your typical 17th century European the shape and color of an uncooked dumpling with hair like broom bristles coming out the wrong end of his face. Considering any moron can Google Image search "Captain John Smith" and find this out for themselves, I don't understand why my family seems to be one of the only ones who found the film offensive. At about age five [back when we lived among other humans] I tried to debate the subject with the kids next door. They were of English descent, so I asked them how they'd like it if someone made a cartoon musical called _Boudicca_ portraying Queen Boudicca as a lightly-dressed Celtic princess who falls madly in love with some strapping handsome fellow calling himself Augustus Caesar. Despite being English, they'd never heard of Boudicca, and thought Augustus Caesar was a salad dressing, so the comparison went nowhere. But I digress).

**...**

We sat down by the side of the Kaisers' indoor-outdoor pool. Nearby there was a buffet table full of typical junky party food.

"Are you hungry, Little Brother?" Sarah asked. "I'll get you a slice of pizza. You like it with all the toppings but the broccoli, right?"

I thanked her.

She came back with the pizza slice as requested, but she was biting her lip and her eyebrows were furrowed. We wove through the crowd of guests and found ourselves a little spot nearby.

"You want any?" I asked with my mouth full as I gobbled it down.

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

Come to think of it, I hadn't seen her actually eat a meal for the past few days. Just a handful of cereal here and a slice of cheese there. She'd always been thin, but now she could be called emaciated, which got me seriously worried. Anorexia is not flattering on anyone. I'd had to ask her to make sure she didn't touch me with her elbow because the bone was sharp through her flesh and could really hurt.

"What happened? You look like you're going to barf. Or slug someone."

"Oh…it's nothing, really." She smiled nervously. "My mind was somewhere else, that's all."

The band started making horrible noise. Amy shook her hair as she drummed, and it looked like blood floating in water. Michelle whined:

_Tell me, why should I care?_

_ 'cause you weren't there when I was scared_

_ I was so alone_

_ You, you need to listen _

_ I'm starting to trip, I'm losing my grip _

_ And I'm in this thing alone…_

"Sis?"

"Yes?"

"I know about Fang. That was him at Dad's funeral."

She hid her head in her hands. "Et tu, Brute?"

"What did he say to you?"

My sister sighed despairingly. "He sure didn't say what Amy seems to think he said."

"Can you tell me?"

"I will. I should've told you long ago."

"Why did it take this long? I thought we trusted each other."

"I didn't want to believe it myself. More than that…I guess I thought if I didn't speak of it, it wouldn't exist. Or it wouldn't have any power over us."

"Clary thinks it has something to do with Mom and Dad."

"She's right."

"Why just you? Why not both of us?"

"Because he's a jerk, that's why. Maybe he was hoping to turn us against each other."

"So the information he told you might not be correct?"

"Right. I'm afraid it's a trap."

"But what exactly did he say?"

A boy snuck behind the curtain at the back of the "stage", smirking wickedly.

"The Simonettas have guy groupies, apparently," I snickered.

The guy was too far-off for me to tell anything except that he was blond and well-built, dressed all in black.

Sarah looked up. "I think I'd better go check that out," she said. "I told Uncle George I'd let him know if there were anything sinful going on here. Wanna come with me?"

"Nah."

"OK then. See you, bro."

"Don't forget—we need to finish this conversation."

"We will, don't worry." She got up and wove through the throngs.

**...**

So I sat there and munched for what must have been several minutes. Sarah didn't come back. I guessed she was guarding that guy.

Eventually I got bored, so I got up and started wandering around.

Eric and Simon had poor Philippa Gaunt cornered near the refreshments table. Eric now sported a bunny-ear headband.

I didn't ask. I didn't want to know.

"You should totally come over to my place, sometime, Phil," drawled Simon, trying to sound confident. I figured this must be the first time in his life he'd tried to pick up a girl. I watched—partly to learn how not to flirt, partly to see these idiots get spurned as thoroughly as they deserved. "I mean, I write…" he paused for dramatic effect "…_Custom Bionicle_ fanfiction."

"And I write…_Pokémon_ fanfiction," countered Eric in the same solemn tone.

"Um, well, that's nice," Philippa muttered uncomfortably, adjusting her glasses. "So, what have you and the other guys in Lawn Chair Crisis been up to lately?"

"We're Mr. Wuggum's Wabbit and the Dark Lords of the Abyss now," said Eric.

"That's already taken," I cut in.

"Whah?" said Eric incredulously.

"Seriously. My cousin from Indiana is in a band called Mr. Wuggum's Wabbit and the Dark Lords of the Abyss." According to Brick (who had to listen to them practice, poor guy) that was the only name Rodrick and Axl could agree on when they finally merged Löded Diper with Axl and the Axmen.

"Dude, they totally ripped me off!" Eric exclaimed.

"Really? From what I understand, they've been using that name since April. You started using it all of five minutes ago. If anything, _you've_ ripped _them_ off."

"Does the lead singer wear an awesome bunny-ear headband like I do?" he asked, voice starting to shake.

I smirked. "_He _wears a full body pink bunny suit like the kid from _A Christmas Story_."

Eric excused himself and scampered away, looking like he was going to cry.

Simon cleared his throat like he wanted to continue the conversation but by that time Philippa had run to the other side of the room, pulling me along with her. Her hand was burning on my wrist.

"Thank you," she said once we stopped running and she let go of me. "I'm much obliged."

"No problem," I returned, studying her face more closely. Calvin's research on the Gaunts popped to the surface of my mind. Part of me wondered if Philippa was about to grant me three wishes.

She leaned closer to me and whispered, "Be careful, Ron. I know you're curious. But you should know there are lots of beings in this city who can hurt the curious and the clear-sighted. And many of these beings look entirely harmless. You've already met one."

I whispered too. "Let me guess. Percy Jackson?"

"Yep. There are thousands of others. If you or Amy or your sister see or experience anything weird or frightening, just come over to our house. My mom will protect you."

"Thanks." I shook her hand. Philippa always shook hands with her middle finger folded in. I wondered why.

This sounded like an admission that there was something of a supernatural nature going on here. But all the things I wanted to ask and/or tell her about had to wait, because at that moment she caught sight of her brother, who was waving her over from near the stage, and she ran to meet him.

**...**

I went outside and sat by the pool, to get away from the infernal party noise. I was alone there.

The temperature was still sweltering, but it seemed cool compared to the inside, which was actually air-conditioned but so packed with kids it might as well not have been.

I fished my iPod out of my pocket, put on my earbuds, and selected "Shuffle all."

The best rock song—nah, the best song, period—ever recorded came on. It was my dad's favorite song when he was my age (before getting interested in science his goal in life was to shred guitar like the Jimi). It drove all the nasty thoughts of Fang and Percy and the others right out of my mind. I closed my eyes and let myself drift into its soundscape, of expansive deserts and strange rock formations under a purple sky. In other words, I went home to Arizona.

_"There must be some way out of here,"_

_ Said the joker to the thief,_

_ "There's just too much confusion_

_ I can't get no relief…_

_ Businessmen, they drink my wine_

_ Plowmen dig my earth_

_ And none of them down the line_

_ Know what any of it is worth…hey…"_

"HEY!"

Someone snapped their fingers in front of my eyes.

I jumped about nine feet in the air, back into the present, back into New York. Out fell my earbuds. Quickly I held down the pause button to turn the iPod off and put it back in my pocket.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, kid," said my aggressor.

He was Sarah's age or slightly older: tanned, well-muscled, dressed in black, with longish curly blond hair. His bared teeth were perfect but his smile was a little psycho, and his eyes were yellow. Yellow eyes are nice on cats, owls, and Na'vi, but on humans they just look really creepy and nasty.

He was the guy who'd tried to sneak backstage while the Simonettas were playing.

He was the guy named Jace (stupid name, that) who apparently went around killing demons with his two buddies, the incredibly hot Isabelle and her wimpy brother Alec.

If Percy scared Philippa, Jace would give her a heart attack.

"Yo," I grunted. My first impulse was to holler at him, but that would advertise how much I feared him._ Just act cool, Jorblack. Act tough. Act like you could whup him good, but you're feeling merciful right now._

He cocked his head in the direction of the crowd. "Your friend's poetry is terrible," he remarked. "It sounds like he ate a dictionary and started vomiting up words at random."

The sliding glass doors were open. Apparently the Simonettas were done. Eric held the stage in all his pink-haired bunny-eared glory. He stood at the mic the bassist had used, and he cried dramatically:

_Come, my faux juggernaut!_

_ Smother this realm with dragon zeal!_

The "poem" (for lack of a better word) was by no means over, but I would not trespass on your patience by repeating any more of it.

"_My_ friend?" I repeated indignantly. "I barely _know_ that nimrod."

"I thought you were in his band."

"Do I look like I'd be in a sci-fi-geek loser band that changes their name every fifteen minutes?"

"Yes."

"Well, you look like you belong in Celtic Woman, so you have no right to speak." (Not entirely true, but it was a good insult).

"I'm going to ignore that comment."

"Might I ask who and what you are?"

He smiled again, demonically and condescendingly at the same time. "My name's Jace Wayland."

Wow. Dumb a name as "Jace" was, you could probably make it sound decent with a solid last name like "Williams" or "McKenna" or "Petersen." But "Jace Wayland", really? No wonder he was so insufferable.

He didn't ask my name in return, which I thought was kind of rude.

"And why are you here, 'Jace Wayland'? Something tells me you're not acquainted with Allyson Kaiser."

"Who?" he asked, proving my point. "I'm here to keep an eye on you and your sister."

Great. First Fang and now him—from more than bad enough to even worse. "Why exactly are you 'keeping an eye' on us?"

He shrugged. "You can't really call it 'keeping an eye', I guess. You could say I'm 'checking you guys out'. So many strange things have been happening this year. Clear-sighted mundies and way more demons than usual. My friends and I have been very busy this summer. Something's up."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Jace ran a hand through that fabulous hair of his, almost as though he knew how jealous it would make me, the undersized dweeb who hid his pimply face behind a thick, tangled haystack. "You see, kid, me and my friends—Isabelle and Alec, whom you saw on the beach this past June—are Nephilim, shadow-hunters in the common tongue. Usually we put up a glamour when we go out in society, so mundies—ordinary people, like you—can't see us. But you and your sister can. That's rather alarming."

"Um, ok," I mumbled. "So you guys are Nephilim. Is Percy Jackson one of those?"

Jace grimaced. I gathered he wasn't too crazy about Percy. "Jackson is a Demigod, commonly known as a 'half-blood.' He's the offspring of some ancient mythical deity (probably Greco-Roman; the other types of gods don't breed very much). Demigods and Nephilim are rivals. In case of a battle against demons, we're on the same side. But we've never gotten along, not even when this world was young, according to the legends."

Pausing, he sat down on a garden bench across from me. "Anyway, I'm observing you guys. If you can see through glamours, you're probably not a full-blood mundie. You might be Demigods, or Nephilim, or part Fey or something like that. In which case, despite the fact that you look like you can't lift a paperclip, you might be powerful, and we'd rather have you as friends than enemies. And—though I hate to admit this—your sister is a very attractive young lady."

?

Well. That was unexpected. Jace found Sarah attractive?

I wanted to laugh. My mind's eye strained to put their images side by side, but they just wouldn't fit. The idea of Jace looking at her was only slightly less disturbing and even more ludicrous than the idea of Fang looking at her.

"Is she dating that oaf Simon?" he asked.

"No," I said quickly, before realizing that maybe I should've lied and said "yes", in the hope it would discourage him from making any move on her. "Our cousin Amy's dating Simon." I couldn't decide whether the concept of Sarah/Jace or Sarah/Simon was more revolting.

"Which one's Amy?"

"She's the drummer in that stupid band that was playing before."

"I ask about Simon because he and your sister seem very close."

To which I thought, _Saying Sarah and Simon are "close" is like saying Israel and Iran are allies._

Jace continued. "Yeah, I saw them go backstage and tried to get near her to ask her a few questions, but he was acting all protective of her, and then your brother came in and yelled at me for being a 'pervert' and shooed me out."

I opened my mouth to say, "Fascinating; I didn't know I had a brother."

Then it hit me.

Somehow Jace had gotten the idea in his thick handsome head that Clary was my sister. (You'd think he'd notice that Clary and I looked nothing alike, other than being short and having freckles). Then he dreamt up a whole little clear-sighted mundie family: me, Clary, and our "brother" Sarah.

It was a real battle not to burst out laughing.

I decided now was not the time to set him straight. This would help him learn how it feels to be clueless and proven wrong. For now I'd let him enjoy his perception. We'd been sidetracked. We had serious matters to discuss now.

"Wayland, what exactly does a 'shadow-hunter' do?"

He gave a long, bored sigh, eyes softly focused on the distant shape of the Empire State Building. "Long ago, demons—the Demigods prefer to call them 'monsters'—ran rampant over the Earth. The humans could not withstand them. They killed everything in their path.

"Finally the angel Raziel came down among them, bringing with him a special chalice. He gathered some humans together. He filled the chalice with blood, his own angel blood mixed with human blood, and gave it to the people to drink. These people became the Nephilim. Their eternal mission is to protect mundane humanity from demons.

"At least, that's the story I've always been told. I believed it when I was a little kid, but I'm not sure anymore."

Fang's story was improbable enough, and that had an iota of science in it. Now there were angels and Greek gods and what-have-you in the mix.

My head hurt.

Well, Calvin was right. When he came, I'd owe him ten dollars.

Then again, what was the unbelievable part? Given all that had happened to me over the past year, I could believe there were people like the 'shadow-hunters' described here, who went about slaying cosmic menaces to keep oblivious humanity safe.

I just had a hard time believing that an angel or any being sent from God would have anything to do with Jace Wayland, aside from letting him get swallowed by a whale or something along those lines to take that ego of his down a peg.

I glanced at my wristwatch. It was now 10:00 pm. Marissa wanted us back no later than 10:15. "Wayland, I'm gonna have to leave, but this has been a most fascinating and informative conversation. How might I contact you if I need more information?"

Jace fished around in his pocket. From amid all the daggers he apparently concealed there, he produced a device and handed it to me. The thing was the right size and shape for a cell phone, black with strange designs painted on it in gold. Which reminded me of something…

"Dude, what happened to all your tattoos?" I asked, looking at his suddenly unmarked arms.

"Those aren't tattoos, kid. They're runes. Shadow-hunters use them for protection, and they can give us extra powers. Most runes come off when you bathe. I didn't see the need to wear any this evening. Back to the sensor."

He pointed at the black-and-gold device. "Hit the button if you get attacked by something and we'll come. Share it with your sister."

"What about my brother?" I asked innocently.

He rolled his creepy eyes. "If you must."

And with that he turned around and vanished from my sight.

**...**

Clary, Eric, Sarah, Simon and I helped Amy load her drums and equipment into Simon's minivan.

The four jerks swapped bad jokes about the preppy kids at the party and laughed horribly loudly all the way back. Eric tried to bring Sarah into the conversation once or twice, but her only reply to anything he said was a sad, mumbled "yes" or "no", and eventually he gave up.

I put my iPod back on. It started playing right where it left off.

As we drove along I caught sight of the Empire State Building again. The full moon lingered right above it, and the moon was draped in soft grey-blue clouds. I thought of the strange way Jace looked at it this evening, as if he knew something I didn't. I thought of what Calvin had read about it on that database he'd found. Right now the building seemed to almost be calling me towards it.

_All along the watchtower_

_ Princes kept the view_

_ While all the women came and went_

_ Barefoot servants too…_

_ Outside in the cold distance_

_ A wildcat did growl_

_ Two riders were approaching,_

_ And the wind began to howl…_

My hand slipped into my pocket and closed around Jace's black-and-gold signaling thingamabob.

I could feel it deep in my viscera. Soon I'd get the answers. Soon I'd learn the whole truth.

Something earth-shaking was about to happen.

And, despite the danger, I couldn't wait.


	21. XVII: Qoyangnuptu

**Special Edition Author's Note**

_GwF:_ Here I am with _Tartarus Rising _chapter 21. Magnus, you have a question?

_Magnus:_ Yes. When will my magnificent self make an appearance in this story?

_Sarah:_ We'll see your "evil sorcerer" self and your "total jerk" self shortly, but your "magnificent" self? I don't think he'll show up at all.

_GwF:_ Be nice, you guys—wait, what did he do to you?

_Sarah:_ He didn't do anything to _me._

_Magnus:_ You'll find out soon enough, GwF darling!

_Sarah:_ *rolls eyes* No remorse, I see.

_GwF:_ Please note, the story Ron tells in this chapter (that he learned from Grandma Watters) can be found in the _Book of the Hopi _by Frank Watters (Ballantine Books, 1963). It's a high-quality book, generally agreed to be accurate. However, like any other nation, the Hopi have several different creation/origin stories that sometimes contradict each other (this is common in many religions—the Judeo-Christian _Book of Genesis _actually contains two different creation narratives). That said, not all Hopis believe this is how they settled their land.

The Bible quotation is from the New American Bible, Catholic version (1970).

I was a little worried that some people would be offended that Kokopelli, a Hopi _kachina_, appears in the same story as Greek gods and mutant bird kids. I tried to make it really obvious that Kokopelli functions on a higher plane than the other beings in the story, to give him a spiritual vibe. Then again, _Muse _magazine (great magazine BTW) features a comic strip called _Kokopelli & Company, _which portrays Kokopelli as a pie-throwing practical jokester, and to the best of my knowledge no one was offended by that. Anyway, if you think I should edit Kokopelli out of the story, please let me know with a (polite) review. Thank you!

P.S. On an entirely different note, the song Ron uses to annoy people is "Girlfriend" by Avril Lavigne.

* * *

><p>XVII. Qöyangnuptu.<p>

When we got home, we shoved the three boxes of pizza we'd been sent home with into the fridge, then went into Marissa's room to wish her good night. George was sitting at her bedside. She looked really uncomfortable.

"Did you kids have a good time at Allyson's?" she croaked.

"I had a great time," Amy stated. "Not sure about them."

"Ron and I were party animals," said Sarah facetiously. "We made eye contact and spoke when we were spoken to." Amy rolled her eyes.

**...**

"So, sis," I asked as we brushed our teeth, "you wanna finish what you were saying about the elusive Mr. F?"

"In the morning, little brother. It's nothing to talk about before you go to sleep, trust me."

"Tomorrow morning, then. Don't forget. I want the truth. And there's some stuff I need to tell you about, too."

"Ok, Ron. Sleep well tonight."

"You too, Sarah."

**...**

I checked my email that night and was surprised to find nothing from Calvin.

That was strange. Since his arrival in New York was fast approaching, we'd been feverishly trying to get him some living arrangements. Where could he stay?

I realized that I hadn't spoken to him in over a week.

So I sent a brief email to him right away. Then I tried to connect with him via Skype. Connection failed. Curses. As Calvin would say: "Zounds! The Gorkon battleships are upon us!"

Gorkon battleships could be a) the police, b) Russian mobsters who get paid to hack American computers, c) the Amish family who didn't know he was living in the loft of their barn, or d) Fang. We also occasionally referred to Fang as The Hideous Scum Being from Planet Zark-14.

I thought I might get a clue from The Hideous Scum Being's blog, so I went over to check it out.

Fang hadn't written for five days. That was odd, too. Fang usually wrote every day—not that I checked every day, but I saw the date on each of the posts I read.

According to the last one he had landed in New York with his "gang" of new mutant friends.

_Hey all,_

_ Ah, New York, New York! Long time, no see. Despite getting nearly killed by Erasers about a thousand times here, I still love this place. _

_ Right now we're all holed up in a hotel. Star went through about seven pizzas (I had five). Everyone's ok, but a bit exhausted._

_ For the past three hours I've been trying every means possible to contact Sarah Blackwood, but she's not on Skype, Facebook or any other social network. I don't know her email, and since Nudge isn't here, I can't hack into her computer. There's a George Blackwood in New York who I figure is the uncle she stays with now. But when I called his number (twice) this very unpleasant preteen boy answered to tell me that the Blackwood family was now off the grid (which was a lie). _

Believe it or not, this "very unpleasant preteen boy" was not me. I remembered five days previous the phone had rung at about 4:00 pm. I'd been blogging about the new _Star Trek_ movie in my room, Amy was practicing her drums in the basement, George was at the gym and obviously Marissa couldn't get up, so Sarah dropped what she was doing (writing a letter to the President about the Canadian oil rig) to answer.

"Hello?" she'd said. "Oh. Well, my name is Doug Wilkins. My family and I live in this house now. We just moved up from Georgia. The Blackwoods used to live here, but they're off the grid now. I think they moved to Alaska to live with the caribou like the guy in _Never Cry Wolf._ Oh. It's a great old movie about this scientist who lives with caribou and wolves. Maybe you should watch it. Yes, if you want to talk to Sarah Blackwood I recommend you go to Alaska. I'm sure you are. Yes, I saw that _Dateline_. You're a fantastic actor. Oh, it's real? Well, uh, yeah, have a nice day." And she hung up.

It happened again two days ago.

That was the first time I'd heard her be anything less than impeccably courteous, let alone dishonest, on the phone. When I asked her about it, she said it was Mitt Romney's campaign asking for money. I'd shot back that it was odd that Mitt Romney's campaign wanted money from us when both George and Marissa were registered democrats. She'd just shrugged.

The truth made a lot more sense. I didn't want to know how Fang discovered we were still on the grid, but it was pretty funny that he fell for the Doug Wilkins thing.

Anyway. Back to Fang's blog:

_Also, Max II hasn't shown up yet. I hope she's ok._

_ So Max II, if you're reading this: PLEASE COME NOW. We don't have much time to waste._

_ And Sarah, if you're reading this (which I sincerely hope you are): PLEASE LET ME KNOW BECAUSE I'M GETTING WORRIED ABOUT YOU. I'm starting to wonder if this Doug Wilkins kid who answered the phone killed you and your family. Please tell me that's not true. [Stop snickering, Holden. My heart belongs to Max. I am not—I repeat, AM NOT—romantically interested in Sarah]. You are an important part of this plan. You can post a comment or video on my blog to contact me._

_ Both of you: meet me and the gang at the base of the Statue of Liberty. From there we can exchange info and launch our plan of action. That's all I can tell you right now. You have to trust me._

_I'm also kind of mad right now because we are apparently being tracked. I know this because I used the bathroom in here and I slipped on these noodles that were sitting by the door. Then I slipped on some noodles coming downstairs to the pool. And then I slipped on some noodles on the way out of the elevator [stop laughing, Ratchet]. _

_All the noodles were greenish colored and smelled like they'd been dug from the bottom of a trash bin. I should mention that a certain hater on this blog (someone going under the username of TheIcyBlueHandOfDeath1986) keeps threatening to cause a "noodle incident." I guess this is what he meant. Icy Blue Hand of Death, will you and your friend Jorblack please tell me why you hate on me and what exactly you want? If it turns out you're agents of Itex, I will not be happy. While you're at it, post paranoid rants about the government on your own blogs—I don't need that kind of thing here. And stop threatening to feed me, my Flock, my gang and my fans to wild Zondargs. I don't know what that means but I don't like the sound of it. Thank you._

_Fly on,_

_Fang_

**There are 330 comments on this post**

**TheIcyBlueHandOfDeath1986 wrote:** 3 days ago

_WILD ZONDARGS should be in all caps. The WILD ZONDARGS must be paid every respect. As for the noodles: MWAH-HA-HA-HA-HA!_

**Fangs#1Girl wrote: **3 days ago

_ TheIcyBlueHandOfDeath1986 stop being such a jerk! You and Jorblack should go hang yourselves! How dare you be so mean to Fang! Go away! We all hate you here!_

I won't trespass on your patience by showing all the comments like this. That's the kind of abuse Calvin and I put up with on a daily basis from the Fang Girls.

You ask, if we got cyberbullied, why didn't we just quit? Because we felt we had a responsibility to show these poor dumb kids Fang's true nature. And we wanted to start a fight. Not necessarily in that order.

I signed in and posted a comment:

**Jorblack the Torchbearer wrote:** 20 seconds ago

_Ladies and gents, let's talk about this in a civilized manner. We do not mean to offend you. However the fact remains that Fang is a traitor, a liar, a charlatan, and a thief. Visit .com or .com for more information. _

But what had happened to Calvin?

Tomorrow I'd look into it.

**...**

I pulled on a ratty t-shirt (that is, rattier than the one I was already wearing) and an equally ratty pair of shorts, and climbed into bed. Tonight, for some inexplicable reason, I actually wanted to sleep.

What could I read to lull myself to sleep?

I thought of finishing Julius Caesar, but decided on the Bible instead. There was something in there I wanted to look up.

There was no index, but since the passage I wanted was right near the beginning in the Book of Genesis, I didn't have to hunt very long.

_**Origin of the Nephilim .**__ When men began to multiply on earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of heaven saw how beautiful the daughters of man were, and so they took for their wives as many of them as they chose. Then the Lord said: "My spirit shall not remain in man forever, since he is but flesh. His days shall comprise one hundred and twenty years."_

_ At that time as well as later the Nephilim appeared on earth (as well as later)…They were the heroes of old, the men of renown._

Jace's story didn't quite jive with this. He said the Nephilim were people who drank angel blood. The Bible said the Nephilim were the natural-born offspring of male angels and human women, not unlike Greco-Roman demigods. Either could be right and either could be wrong.

My yawn nearly spilt my head in half.

**...**

The Hopi (at least the group that my maternal grandparents came from) believe that there are nine worlds. One is the world of Taiowa, the Creator, which encompasses all the other worlds and then some more. The second is the home of Sótuknang, Taiowa's Nephew, the Destroyer.

The remaining seven are allotted to humans. We live now in the Fourth, and there are three left should this one be destroyed.

It was intended by Taiowa that humans only need one world, but in all the previous worlds we lost touch with him, so those worlds needed to be destroyed to give us a fresh start. Tokpela ("Endless Space"), the First World, became corrupted by lust and was ended by fire. Tokpa ("Dark Midnight"), the Second World, became greedy and was frozen to death. Kuskurza (meaning of name has been lost), the Third World, saw the invention of prostitution and weapons of mass destruction, and it was drowned. In each world Sótuknang saved the good people; they survived to populate the subsequent worlds.

This Fourth World is named Túwaqachi ("world complete"). According to some, there have been warnings for decades that the Apocalypse (and the Fifth World, for the chosen of God) is soon upon us.

When the righteous arose into the Fourth World to settle and populate it, each group followed a different star, and settled under where the star rested.

The people who would become the Hopi had to climb a tall mountain to reach the place set aside for them. Accompanying them were two _máhus_—insect people resembling the locust.

An eagle met them at the mountaintop. "Have you lived here for a long time?" asked one of the _máhus_, speaking for all of them.

"I have lived here since this Fourth World was created," the eagle replied.

"We have travelled a long time to reach this place," continued the _máhu_. "May we share it with you?"

"Perhaps," said the eagle. "But first I must test you."

Now they could see he held a cluster of arrows in his talons.

At his command, the two _máhus_ stepped closer. The eagle turned to one and said, "I'll poke your eyes with this arrow. If you keep your eyes open, you and your fellow travelers may settle here."

The arrow came so close it almost touched the eyeball, but the _máhu_ didn't even blink.

"You are a people of great strength," the eagle remarked. "But the second test is much harder. I don't think you can pass it."

"We are ready," replied the _máhus._

The eagle drew out a bow and put an arrow to the string. He shot one _máhu_ through the body. With an arrow protruding from one side of his torso, the _máhu_ lifted the flute he'd been carrying and started playing a lovely tune.

"You are more powerful than I expected," observed the eagle. He shot the other _máhu, _whojust grabbed his own flute and played along with his comrade. Their music was so beautiful it healed their wounds.

The eagle honored his agreement. In addition to letting the people occupy his land, he let them use his feather in prayer ceremonies. Because he was the greatest of all birds, the conqueror of the sky, he could take their prayers directly to the Creator.

One of the _máhus_ was called Kokopelli, the Humpbacked Flute Player. He carried seeds and flowers (and sometimes babies) in the hump on his back; he brought springtime warmth in the music he played. When some of the people migrated north he went with them, scattering seeds and singing on his way.

**...**

In my nightmare, I was trapped in a crate in a white room full of people with white lab coats and surgical masks. One of them stuck a needle into my arm, and I crumpled to the bottom of my crate, all thoughts and perceptions shattered.

**...**

I woke sitting bolt-upright, panting, sweating. Hopi slept in the crook of my arm. When I moved, he raised his head, drowsily blinking his yellow eyes.

"Hey, buddy," I murmured. "S'ok."

All attempts to fall back to sleep failed. For what seemed like years I lay awake, mulling over everything that had happened since the fire in January. At about 2:35 am I got up, sick of how the blankets clung to me.

Splashing some cold water on my face, I caught my reflection in the mirror above my bathroom sink (yes, my bathroom. This house was so big every bedroom had its own adjoining bathroom). Those pimples looked terribly determined. My hair was so long now that it got really frizzy if I didn't tie it back at night. I staggered out of the bathroom running a brush absently through my bangs.

I opened the curtains. Now was the time the Hopi called _qöyangnuptu_, the first purple light of dawn, the first phase of Creation. Central Park was a cluster of darkness. Artificial light glinted from millions of skyscraper windows.

Everything looked normal.

But something was missing that I couldn't put my finger on.

Then it hit me. I heard no cars rushing by, no rap music blaring from a sidewalk radio, no gunshots or police sirens, no mutter of endless crowds.

One of the things I hated most about this city was the constant noise, even at the dead of night. I know I've complained about it at length before, so I won't waste your time with it again.

But now it was as quiet as my true home in Arizona.

What could this mean? Was it that catastrophe I'd been holding my breath for? What did I do now? Was I supposed to act? Or wait and see what happened?

Closing my eyes, I said a quick prayer under my breath, picturing myself writing the request on a little slip of paper with an eagle-quill pen, and an eagle swooping down to take pen and paper up through the sky to the Creator.

Suddenly, subtly, the eerie quiet was pierced by music: the sweet tones of a flute…a Native flute. I didn't recognize the tune; it was sad and hopeful and peaceful and wild all at once. It came from far away but was startlingly clear. Somehow I knew I was the only person who could hear it.

The flute stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and a voice began to sing, similar enough to a human voice that you would assume it was human unless you listened very hard. Its tone reminded me of a cicada or cricket. The melody it sang was the same as the one the flute had played. Paying close attention to the lyrics, I was able to identify it:

"_Ki-tana-po, ki-tana-po, ki-tana-po, ki-tana-PO !_

_Ai-na, ki-na-weh, ki-na-weh_

_Chi-li li-cha, chi-li li-cha_

_Don-ka-va-ki, mas-i-ki-va-ki_

_Ki-ve, ki-ve-na-meh_

_HOPET !"_

Grandpa Watters had sung me this song, long ago, when I asked what those first Hopi would have heard as they travelled. It was Kokopelli's song. To this day the Kokopelli _kachina_ sang it when he danced. Although the music and lyrics and been preserved from time immemorial, the words were so old that no one now living knew what they meant.

My mother was not what you'd call a religious woman. She read her Gospels devotedly, but (as Sarah told you earlier) saw angels and demons and that type of thing as a distraction. Although Mom denied this profusely, she was not over-fond of Hopi religion either, and Grandma and Grandpa telling Sarah and me these stories made her kind of nervous. I never knew why. I just got the impression these subjects were unpleasant for her. Maybe her scientific mind had a hard time accepting all this faith stuff, but then, it didn't bother Dad. At any rate, I'd always maintained some skepticism about stories like the one I told you a couple pages back.

But I knew in my gut that Kokopelli was out there. He was in Manhattan, far from Hopi territory.

And Manhattan was silent.

**...**

Driven without certainty of why, I went back to the bathroom and took a quick shower. Refreshed, I put on a clean pair of socks and pulled cargo shorts over the boxers I slept in. I threw on a worn t-shirt that didn't smell as bad as the others. I twisted some hair into a skinny braid.

Hopi watched me dress, his furry grey eyelids half-drooped. "I know, I know," I told him. "I've lost my mind at last, haven't I, old friend?"

He just yawned and stretched in response. His facial expression gave away none of his thoughts. Cats. Who knows what goes on in their heads.

My gut told me that if I followed Kokopelli, I might not come back for a while. So I went downstairs to the kitchen.

Allyson had ordered something like a hundred pizzas to feed all the guests at her party. Each Simonetta took home three pies.

I grabbed a big Ziploc bag and stuffed twelve slices into it. The pizza's smell was intoxicating, even after a night in the fridge. I breathed it in with a deep sigh of pleasure.

Mom made pizza sometimes—but she always put vegetables or something "healthy" on it. We only got meat toppings back when we had roosters, or when one of the hens got too old to lay eggs.

Having progressive parents has many perks, but it has many drawbacks too: you grow up thinking that a) everyone listens to John Coltrane and b) everyone eats way too much tofu.

Anyway.

I am not the world's quietest person. I sounded like an elephant clomping up and down those stairs. The refrigerator door was loud. The fridge itself made a highly irritating buzzing noise when it was open and a highly irritating clucking noise when it was shut.

Being such a light sleeper, if I heard such a commotion from the kitchen at 2:45 am I would not have any peace of mind till I got up to investigate.

Yet not a creature was stirring—not even a faerie mouse, a demigod mouse, a djinn mouse, a Nephilim mouse, or a genetically-modified mutant mouse.

What happened last night?

Leaving the bag of pizza on the counter, I ran back upstairs.

**...**

George and Marissa slept with their door shut, but not locked. I nudged it open cautiously and peeked inside. The dawn was turning yellow (_síkangnuqua_ in Hopi; the second phase of Creation, when man received the breath of life). Between the light and shadow I could only see their outlines. George snores like a chainsaw with a whiskey habit. So did Dad, and so does Sarah. Luckily the snore gene seems to have passed me by.

I shook them and called their names. They didn't wake. I flicked the lights on and off. I jumped on the bed. I banged pots and pans. None of it worked. Why?

Finally I crept into Amy's room. She was dead asleep too. If my plan succeeded it wake up everyone for miles, so I didn't bother trying to wake her.

I took her iPod and iPod dock into the master bedroom. I plugged it into one of the outlets. I selected the most painful, obnoxious song she had (which was saying something) and cranked the volume as loud as it would go. You could wake the dead with this piece of audio garbage.

"_Hey! Hey! You! You! I don't like your girlfriend!_

_No way! No way! I think you need a new one!_

_Hey! Hey! You! You! I could be your girlfriend!_

"_Hey! Hey! You! You! I know that you like me!_

_No way! No way! I know it's not a secret!_

_Hey! Hey! You! You! I could be your girlfriend!"_

My aunt and uncle did not stir, which was starting to freak me out. Clearly they were alive—dead people don't snore—so what was going on?

Maybe I would've figured it out sooner if I hadn't been once again jumping on the bed whacking a saucepan with a soup ladle harmonizing with Avril Lavigne at the top of my prepubescent lungs.

A scary blob of color surfaced in the corner of my eye. The creature wore a pastel pink camisole and matching tiny shorts. Its skin was horribly pale, its scarlet hair mussed. Turquoise and black eye paint had bled all over its perpetually angry face.

"Might I ask what in God's name you think you're doing?" it growled at me.

She was awake now, at any rate. There might still be hope for the others. It hit me just how stupid I must look, so I climbed off the bed.

"Trying to wake your parents," I replied.

Amy muttered something that sounded like "That man is not my father."

"Beg pardon?"

"I said, why are you trying to wake them at this hour?" she snapped.

"Hmm…maybe because the streets outside are dead silent and I want to know what's happening but they won't wake up and Kokopelli's out there and I gotta go find him and—"

I doubt Amy heard a word of that. She marched past me, turned off the music, and unplugged the iPod dock. Balancing it on one hip with the iPod itself in a clenched fist, she pointed at me and said threateningly, "My stuff, freak. Got that? This is my stuff. Don't ever touch it again."

With that she stalked out of the room.

**...**

Once again the house was silent.

Once again I heard him playing his flute, singing in his locust voice.

I'd better get moving.

I crept into Sarah's room. Her snoring isn't quite as bad as George's or Dad's, but I get the feeling it's a bit abnormal for a young girl like her to sound so bearlike.

I shook her. "Listen, sis," I whispered. "Kokopelli's outside. I think we should go meet him."

All the response I got was another snore.

"Well, I'm going, at any rate."

Amy had waked up, but Sarah hadn't. Most intriguing.

Just as I turned to leave she shouted, "Ron!"

She was awake! "Yes? "

"Don't go near the Beaver, Ron. It won't tell you where the gold is. It won't save our farm. It won't save us. The Beaver _knows_, Ron. The Beaver knows everything." There was more, but her snoring drowned it out.

She talks in her sleep too, sometimes. She got that from Mom.

"Right then, sis," I muttered, and ran downstairs.


	22. XVIII: The Only Living Boy in New York

**Special Edition Author's Note**

_Ron:_ BTW, the song I sing in this chapter—and that the chapter is named after—is "The Only Living Boy in New York" by Simon & Garfunkel.

_GwF:_ Just for fun, see if you can identify the character who appears at the end of this chapter. (This shouldn't be too hard; he's not an obscure character like Calvin). Thank you all for your great feedback! Suggestions, constructive criticism and praise (when it's earned) are always much appreciated!

* * *

><p>XVIII. The Only Living Boy in New York.<p>

A nagging sensation in my gut told me to bring my guitar. I didn't see why, but I didn't see why not, so I put it in its travel case and slung it across my shoulder. Maybe Kokopelli wanted a guitarist to accompany his flute playing (in which case I wasn't exactly the best to invite, but hey—the spirit world works in mysterious ways).

Outside the streets were littered with people, crumpled on the ground or in their cars. At first I feared they were all dead, but some snored and others twitched.

I threaded my way between them down the sidewalk. Against the now-red dawn (_tálawva_, the third phase of Creation) I could see the little silhouetto of a _mahú._

He was always far ahead of me, so it was hard to judge how tall he was—probably the size of a man, but maybe a little taller. He'd stand on a street corner, piping or singing, and his head would turn in my direction, like he was making sure I hadn't gotten lost. Then, satisfied, he'd march on.

The unnaturally silent streets echoed his chant:

_Ki-tana-po, ki-tana-po, ki-tana-po, ki-tana-PO !_

_ Ai-na, ki-na-weh, ki-na-weh_

_ Chi-li li-cha, chi-li li-cha_

_ Don-ka-va-ki, mas-i-ki-va-ki_

_Ki-ve, ki-ve-na-meh_

_HOPET ! _

I was too intrigued to be afraid.

But why was everyone in the city asleep except me? Did it have anything to do with Fang, Jace or Percy? Was it what Philippa had tried to warn me about?

**...**

We walked—or rather, Kokopelli skipped ahead and I tried not to trip on snoozing pedestrians far behind him—for what felt like a long time.

In my head I mulled over the note I'd left at the house.

_My dear family—_

_I hope this note finds you all in the best of health. I left at 3:00 am the 22nd of August, being called away on business too risky to write down here. I took some of Miss Kaiser's pizza for sustenance on my journey._

_ Hopefully I will return as soon as possible, but should anything happen to me, my last will and testament is below. _

_ To my sister, Sarah—my laptop, guitar tab books, iPod, all my t-shirts and all my books (except as noted). _

_ To my cat, Hopi—all my socks and underwear, to be made into catnip toys. Also the $300 in my bank account._

_ To my uncle and guardian, George—my CD collection and my furniture, to be used as he sees fit._

_ To my aunt, Marissa—my new bonsai tree and the handbook relating to its care._

_ Last but not least, to my cousin, Amy—my Homer, Plato, Aristotle, Plutarch, Herodotus, Thucydides, Virgil, Ovid, Tacitus, Augustine, Dante, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, and Gibbon, as I know she will enjoy them._

_ If I do not return, know that I loved you all and wished my time with you could have lasted longer._

_ May God bless and keep you,_

_ Oberon James Blackwood_

**...**

You can imagine my shock when I looked up and found myself in the middle of a forest.

Is it magic? I wondered. But I saw skyscrapers peeking through the trees. This wasn't Narnia—just Central Park.

Kokopelli pranced along, weaving his tuneful way between the tree-trunks. I followed, only now realizing how tired I was.

Just as the sun finally pulled itself free of the unseen horizon, he sat down on a bench beside a grizzled old homeless guy, who like everyone else in the city was trapped by unnatural sleep.

The _mahú_ played one more trill on his flute and sang a last refrain:

_Ki-tana-po, ki-tana-po, ki-tana-po, ki-tana-PO !_

_ Ai-na, ki-na-weh, ki-na-weh_

_ Chi-li li-cha, chi-li li-cha_

_ Don-ka-va-ki, mas-i-ki-va-ki _

_Ki-ve, ki-ve-na-meh_

_HOPET ! _

With that he disappeared.

**...**

I sat on that same bench, setting down my guitar and my pizza bag.

What now?

Someone had drawn on the pavement where my feet rested. Four clear letters, one timely word:

_**WAIT. **_

Whether Kokopelli himself had left that message, or some random person had before this morning and just happened to draw a Kokopelli, I never knew.

Either way it made me smile.

**...**

With nothing better to do but wait, I took out my guitar and started strumming. I'm really bad at guitar; I can only play chords. But the sound was reassuring in the silence, so I kept it up. I even dared to sing in my quaking soprano voice.

_Tom, get your plane right on time_

_ I know your part will go fine_

_ Fly down to Mexico_

_ Doe an do doe, doe an do doe, and here I am,_

_ The only living boy in New York._

_ I get the news I need on the weather report_

_ Oh I can gather all the news I need on the weather report_

_ Hey-ey-ey I got nothing to do today but smile_

_ Doe an do doe, doe an do doe, and here I am_

_ The only living boy in New York._

_ Half of the time we're gone and we don't know where_

_ No we don't know where…_

_ Ahhhhhh, ahahahhhh, ahahahhhh, ahahahhhh, ahahahhhh, ahahahahahahhhhh…._

_ Here…I…am…_

"Hey kid!" someone hissed nearby. "You are aware that the year isn't 1969?"

The voice died in my throat; my hands fell; the pick slipped through my fingers.

Before me stood a tall, willowy personage of uncertain gender; someone with jagged emo black hair and a glowing tan, wearing a designer t-shirt and black skinny jeans. The eyes were big, slightly slanted, and yellow-green, like a cat's, and lined like Cleopatra's.

"Nudge!" the person called. Male, I decided. Very creepy. "Nudge! Maybe this little hairy hippie would like to help you find the Institute!"

_Little hairy hippie?_ Ouch.

Well then.

Apparently I was not the only living boy in New York.


	23. Interlude: Clary

**Special Edition Author's Note**

_GwF:_ Just stopping in to acknowledge that the other character who will appear in this chapter, Farley Drexel Hatcher—

_Farley:_ I'M NOT FARLEY, I'M _FUDGE!_

_GwF:_ Ok, ok, _Fudge _Hatcher, is not from any of the stories listed in the beginning disclaimer. He's from the "Fudge Quartet" if you will—_Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Superfudge, Fudge-a-mania, _and _Double Fudge _by Judy Blume (the subject matter of her YA books can get kind of icky IMHO, but those four books are fourth-grade reading level gems). Anyway, I loved the Fudge series in fourth grade, and since they take place in New York too, I thought it'd be hilarious if the infamous Fudge made a cameo appearance in _Tartarus Rising._

Also, I remember that in _City of Bones, _Clary was assailed by only one demon when her apartment was ransacked and her mother kidnapped. But for the purposes of this story (which will become clear later) there are three.

* * *

><p>INTERLUDE<p>

One of that horrible Allyson's friends couldn't stay for the sleepover, so Philippa Gaunt had suggested Clary for the empty spot (they would've invited Amy Porter, too, but Amy's mom didn't trust her at sleepovers. Apparently once she'd broken into her friend's dad's power tools and tried to dismantle the house. Amy would neither confirm nor deny the story).

Clary had fallen asleep with her earbuds in, drowning out the stupid gossip of the popular girls with the sweet, angsty sounds of Flyleaf.

She and Philippa were the only girls who woke up this morning.

Allyson and her friends weren't dead. They were asleep. So were Allyson's parents.

Nothing Philippa and Clary did could wake them up.

Philippa had called her mom to come get them.

Layla Gaunt came in on a flying carpet. She explained to the girls that something of dreadful import had happened in the city during the night, but refused to say exactly what. The whole ride to Brooklyn, Layla studied Clary strangely, as if she knew just by looking at the girl that she couldn't be trusted. Clary wondered what she'd ever done to make Mrs. Gaunt suspect her.

The flying carpet had dropped Clary off at her apartment building. Layla Gaunt had promised her that her mom would be awake, and could explain all this better than she could.

"Philippa and I would stay, but we're needed elsewhere. Stay in your apartment, Clarissa. Once you've talked with your mother, you'll understand why."

Then the carpet flew away into the orange-yellow morning sun.

There was no sound, just the skeletal echo of her chattering teeth…and far underneath it, the snores of everyone in New York. Trembling, Clary eased open the back door to her apartment complex. Some reason she didn't feel safe walking down the sidewalk.

She supposed that the Gaunts were djinn, but that would mean djinn were real, and if djinn were real how many other things were likewise real?

The door fell shut behind Clary soundlessly. In the cold dark of the back staircase she sank to the ground and racked her brain for anything that would explain this morning's occurrences.

Faces flashed behind her eyelids. A goth boy with black wings. A muscular boy with a crazy smile and yellow eyes. A boy she and her friends hated, whose eyes were the same strange bright green as her own. _Fang. Jace. Percy._

Did they have the answers?

Clary climbed the stairs, trying not to freak out every time she heard her own footfalls echo in the wretched silence.

She came out on her floor and looked around. No sound. No movement…wait. She could hear a child's voice singing:

_Money, money, money,_

_ Funny, funny, funny,_

_ Bunny, bunny, bunny,_

_ Honey, honey, honey…_

Of course _he_ was still awake. Clary rolled her eyes. You could drop a Greek fire bomb on Farley Drexel Hatcher and he probably wouldn't die.

She knocked lightly on the door of the Hatchers' apartment.

"Hello, Farley," she said sweetly.

"I'M NOT FARLEY, I'M _**FUDGE**_!" came the reply.

That was Clary's last resort. She knew this kid; she knew that if you ever addressed him by his real name instead of the ridiculous one he'd picked for himself, he'd go into a tirade that could raise the dead, even if said dead were in Pennsylvania. Or Florida, for that matter. If his screaming didn't wake up everyone on the street or at least in the apartment building, she knew the situation wasn't about to get any better.

"I'm sorry, Fudge, I keep forgetting. May I come in?"

"Sure."

Six-year-old Fudge sat in the middle of his living room floor. His parents were asleep on the couch. As Clary stepped into the apartment she could hear the combined snores of Fudge's older brother Peter and his St. Bernard Turtle coming from down the hall, and lighter and further away, the soft sleep-breathing of Fudge's little sister Tamara (or Tootsie, as some insisted on calling her).

Fudge's myna bird sat still in his cage, head cocked to one side. Clary assumed he was asleep too, but once eye opened and he croaked at her "Bonjour, stupid."

"Bonjour to you too, Uncle Feather," Clary grumbled. Uncle Feather said that to everyone.

She sat down on the floor so she was eye-level with the little terror. He was staring at a pile of dollar bills in his hand. "Fudge, do you know what's going on?" She tried to brush all the fear out of her voice. Never let a little kid know you're scared. "Do you know why everyone but you and me is asleep?"

"Not everyone," he replied, still gloating over his money. "Uncle Feather's awake."

"Granted, but—"

"And then there are the crocodiles."

Clary felt cold alarm gathering in her stomach. Crocodiles escaped from a zoo would be dangerous enough, but she felt a disproportionate amount of dread with the word. "What crocodiles? Where?"

"They just passed down the hallway. Three of them. I saw them coming and hid behind a potted plant. One of them came over and started sniffing me, but its buddies called it away. _He is not what we came for, _they said. _He is not important._"

"The crocodiles spoke?"

"Sort of. Their mouths didn't move, but I could hear their voices in my head."

"Did you see where they went?"

"Yeah. To the right."

"How long ago was this?"

"Maybe an hour." With that he nonchalantly resumed arranging his greenbacks and singing about them.

Clary got up and scrambled to the door. "Thank you, Fudge. Stay in your apartment, ok? Don't let anything or anybody in." She closed the door behind her.

Poor little kid. He might be a psychopath, but he clearly didn't understand the danger, and she wouldn't want him to die.

She ran down the hallway and threw open the door of her apartment. "Mom? Mom, where are you?"

She fought back a scream.

The place was ransacked. Her mother's art supplies were scattered all over the floor; her paintings (including the one of Clary's dad) had been shredded and torn. Furniture had been overturned. Wilting flowers and shards of glass vase lay in a puddle. Disembodied pages of books floated around Clary.

Through the ruin she could see something moving. A crocodile—_three_ crocodiles. But unlike any crocs she'd seen before, these had skins as smooth and black as night. They slithered toward her, smiling hungrily.

And, like Fudge could, she heard their voices in her head.

_Look at the human. It's just a tiny little mouthful, _she could hear the biggest one saying to its comrades. _We need breakfast. Our master won't mind._


	24. XIX: The Disappearance of Ron

**AN:** The song Sarah sings in this chapter is "The Sound of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel.

* * *

><p>"<em>There are no safe paths…Remember you are over the Edge of the Wild now, and in for all sorts of fun wherever you go." <em>~J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Hobbit_

ACT I / LEVEL THREE

XIX. The Disappearance of Ron.

_Speaker: Amy_

I woke up to hippie music somewhere in the house. Could these Blackwoods ever cut me a break? Let's just say if Mother Mary came right now to whisper words of wisdom, "let it be," I'd probably punch her lights out. The sixties are over, kids. Deal with it.

I lay there with my pillow folded over my head trying to muffle the noise until the sun was bright enough to force its way into my eyes from my window.

Ron was such a pain! I didn't know how to deal with him. He complained loudly and constantly about my band, my friends, my music, my style—everything about me. He snooped around in my room. Granted, I'd only caught him that one time yesterday afternoon, but he could've done it before. And of all my belongings he could peruse, it just had to be my Sacred Scrapbook, full of important and highly personal stuff.

He was nasty to my friends. _I_ could tease Eric about those stupid band names he came up with, but a kid who spent all his spare time doing God-only-knows-what on the computer with the shades drawn AND grew his hair down to his armpits without brushing it had no right to point fingers.

And now he had the nerve to steal my iPod and my iPod dock so he could blast Mom and Mr. Blackwood out of bed, waking me from a lovely dream about a Tokio Hotel concert in the process.

I threw a cotton blouse on over my cami and shorts and went downstairs.

**...**

The little stinker himself was nowhere to be seen, but his stupid cat was sitting by the door with its tail curled around its legs, blinking its yellow eyes at me like it could see my soul and wasn't all that impressed.

"What're _you_ staring at?" I grunted, and stomped by.

There was no one in the kitchen either, but I poured myself a bowl of cereal. An acoustic guitar kept strumming below me. _He must be in the basement, practicing for when Jupiter aligns with Mars._

Down I stomped with my cereal bowl.

He kept singing. His voice sounded different somehow; a bit deeper and raspier. Where was that sister of his? Usually she came down to jam with him, harmonizing, or listening to these awful jazz bass solos over and over and trying to replicate them.

_Hello darkness my old friend_

_ I've come to talk with you again_

_ Because a vision softly creeping_

_ Left its seeds while I was sleeping_

_ And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains_

_ Within the sound of silence…_

"I hate to admit it, but you sound really good," I grumbled.

"Thanks," said Ron, his long black braids flying as he turned to greet me.

Wait a moment. Ron's hair was sometimes hairball blond, sometimes mud brown, and sometimes carrot-barf red, but never black. The person playing the guitar was paler-skinned, with a lot less acne, and the arms holding the guitar were much too long.

Well, now I knew why it sounded good. Sarah has a nice voice—in a folksy, granola girl way.

"Good to see you're up and about, Amy," she said, smiling pleasantly. "Is Ron awake? He usually comes downstairs to jam with me."

I rolled my eyes. "I have no clue where he is. Nor do I care."

She shrugged. "I'm sure he's around here somewhere."

There was an awkward pause. "Did you have breakfast?"

"I had a banana with peanut butter on it."

"Your brother made quite an exhibition of himself at about 3:00 am today," I remarked.

"What was he doing?"

"Jumping on Mom's bed, banging pots and pans and blasting my iPod."

She shook her head. "He has moments like that. Did he give any explanation?"

"He wanted to wake them up because someone named Kelly was outside that he needed to talk to, or something like that."

"He was probably sleep-talking. We both do that sometimes."

"I know you do. This morning I heard you yelling something about a beaver."

Her eyes flared with fear. "Don't mention the Beaver!"

"Why? What beaver? Is it a…bad beaver or something?"

"The Beaver _knows,_" she whispered. "The Beaver _knows_ everything."

"Ok then."

Sometimes Sarah annoyed me even more than Ron, because you could actually have a normal conversation with her and think you were getting somewhere and then she'd say some crazy homeschooler thing like that.

"Amy?" she asked. "What did your mom and Uncle George say when Ron was jumping on their bed and making noise?"

"They didn't say anything because they didn't wake up."

Only when I said that did I understand something was wrong.

**...**

_How_ could you not wake up when some kid was jumping on your bed and screaming?

I pondered this as I washed and dressed. When I was ready, I went into the master bedroom to investigate.

Already the morning seemed eerily quiet, but I figured it was just me.

The glow-in-the-dark digital alarm clock on my mom's nightstand read 9:30. You could go deaf being in the same room with George snoring for more than five minutes.

Sure it was summer, but he still had a job. I'd never known either of them to sleep so late.

"Helloooo? Mom? Blackwood?" I opened the curtains, letting the sun flush out the shadows. "C'mon! Looks like a beautiful morning! Rise and shine!"

Mom's hand twitched, but she didn't open her eyes.

When that didn't work I shook them both. No response from her. George hollered, "PATRICK, THAT WAS MY FAVORITE TEDDY BEAR!" and promptly resumed snoring.

I guess yelling out random things was another Blackwood sleep problem.

When Sarah finally came to investigate, I was jumping on the bed, banging pots and pans, screaming along to the Hey Monday CD I was blasting through George's five-hundred-dollar sound system. Ron must've been rubbing off on me.

Still, on they slept.

She stood in the doorway looking distraught. I climbed off the bed. "They won't wake up! It's like Sleeping Beauty or something."

"Let me show you some things," she murmured, and ran downstairs.

**...**

We stood on the front steps, looking at a street covered with dead people. That certainly explained the silence.

Cars sat unmoving in the road, their drivers crumpled over the steering wheels. Pedestrians splayed all over the sidewalk.

This morbid scene continued as far as the eye could see.

After the shady, air-conditioned chill of the house, the warmth outside almost hurt. I squinted to keep out the sunlight, but it still forced its way into my eyes, stinging sharp like Apollo's arrows.

Today was going to be hot.

I sank to my knees on the concrete, dimly hearing myself whimper, "Oh God…oh God….How? Why?" And then, louder, "What killed them?"

My mind went back several years, to the last time a huge disaster struck New York. Once again I was staring out the window of my classroom, watching clouds of fire and ash—

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eye sockets to stop the tears.

"Amy?" I heard Sarah behind me. Gingerly she tapped my shoulder. "I just did some sleuthing. It's not quite as bad as it looks."

"Yeah? How did you figure that?" I barked, not sure how to respond to such a statement.

"Open your eyes."

Reluctantly I lowered my hands so I could see.

Sarah knelt about five feet away, by the side of someone who must've died jogging. I walked over for a closer look. Carefully she pressed her fingertips against the woman's wrist.

"This one has a pulse," my step-cousin explained. "All the ones I've touched do. Now be very quiet and pay attention to all the sounds you hear."

At first I didn't hear anything. But when I concentrated, I could hear a noise, faint but deep and rhythmic. Breathing. Snoring.

"They're…asleep?" I said.

How could this be explained?

Sarah nodded. "I can't imagine how or why, but it's a piece of the puzzle."

Then another question hit me.

"Where's Ron?"

**...**

Once inside again, we found the note Ron had left.

"His name is 'Oberon'?" I asked.

"Don't tell anyone. He's mortally embarrassed about it."

"No kidding. What language is that?" I paused. "Do you know where he might have gone? What's this 'urgent business of a perilous nature'?"

"I have no idea," she moaned. "I have no clue what goes on in his life anymore. He spends all his time on the computer now—wait, that's it, isn't it?"

She charged down the hall with new energy. Curious, I followed.

**...**

Last night this guy had come backstage while my band was playing. He was incredibly hot—tanned and muscular with fabulous blond curly hair, kind of like how Robert Plant looked back in 1973, only with a much better bod.

When I'd asked Sarah about this guy, she'd said he was hitting on Clary and some other girls so she went in to keep an eye on him, and apparently she scared him off.

I was pretty sure he was also one of the knife-wielding dudes who'd given Ron and Clary a hard time on the beach two months ago.

He entered my mind just then for two reasons, the first being his obvious beauty.

The second reason? I'd seen him talking to Ron at the party last night.

I'd been chatting with John Gaunt about the new Linkin Park album when I saw it in the corner of my eye: Ron sitting by himself poolside, the blond guy sneaking up on him, and their very hostile-looking conversation.

Part of me was naturally jealous. I mean, first Sarah gets to meet the one and only Mr. Fangalicous himself, and she doesn't even get his number or anything. Then this golden guy is talking to my dweeby twelve-year-old male cousin, who is so not going to appreciate him? How much more unfair can you get?

And was the blond guy the same type as Percy Jackson? A freakishly handsome outsider who can slip in and out of society as he pleases, giving off an aura of mystery and hidden horror?

Who and what were those dudes?

Somehow I knew they'd be able to tell us exactly what was happening to the city right now.

**...**

I found Sarah scrounging around Ron's room, pawing under his bed and in the drawers of his desk and dresser like a mad dog.

"He must've taken his laptop," she sighed. "I should've known. He barely leaves the house without it."

"Are there any places where he likes to hang out or anything?" I asked.

"Other than in here in front of his computer with the shades drawn, nowhere."

The old grey cat walked slowly into the room, meowing really loud.

Sarah knelt to scratch its head. "Hopi, do you know where Ron is? Did he tell you? Could you sniff him out for us?"

I rolled my eyes. Honestly, that poor critter had all it could do to keep its food in its stomach. I knew it was Sarah's only friend who wasn't her brother, but still, it was hard to feel much sympathy.

She got up suddenly with new resolve. "I'm gonna call 911 and see what this is all about."

About five minutes later she ran back upstairs. "I called every emergency number I could find. The NYPD isn't picking up, and neither is the fire department."

I shifted nervously from one foot to the other. "So…I take it we'll just lay low until someone else wakes up?"

Sarah said nothing and dropped to the floor on her knees. She crossed herself, then held out her hands palms up. I'd never seen a Catholic pray with their hands like that before, but I figured my cousin's parents weren't exactly fundamentalists, so it wasn't too surprising.

"Amy?" she asked after what felt like a very long silence. "Are you up for a little trip to Central Park?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Please review! And check out this Percy Jackson/Kane Chronicles crossover: _Clashing Tides_ by Louisa4533 ( s/8191053/1/Clashing_Tides). It's really good. Thank you!


	25. XX: Most Powerful Warlock in Brooklyn

**Author's Note: All the factual errors and irreverent comments Amy makes when she talks about history or literature are completely intentional. This is what happens when people don't like to learn. Let me know in the reviews if you get the "sitting on a park bench/eying girls with bad intent" reference. If you don't, I'll explain it in the next chapter. ~GwF**

XX. The Most Powerful Warlock in Brooklyn.

"What about Mom?" I demanded. "What about George? What about the house? Say someone breaks in—"

"Take a deep breath before you hyperventilate, Amy," Sarah cut in. How could she be so calm? "I wouldn't worry too much. I think everyone in the neighborhood save the two of us and apparently my brother (wherever he went) is out cold and not likely to wake anytime soon. Break-ins are therefore highly improbable."

"Stop talking like a book," I grumbled.

She carried on as if she hadn't heard me. "Just in case, why don't you stop by the Gaunts and see if they can keep an eye on the place while we're gone."

The Gaunts' house was even bigger and fancier than George's.

All the curtains of the windows were apparently drawn. I could see no movement from inside as I approached.

The wrought-iron gate was locked, so I ambled over to the short stone wall separating George's yard from theirs and vaulted over it, just as I had a million times before.

I don't know what made Sarah think the Gaunts might be awake despite the rest of the neighborhood snoozing away. As I learned more, it would make more sense to me. But I'm still not sure what exactly tipped her off about them.

_See, cousin dear?_ I thought. _They're asleep too. _

But when I turned around to go back, I felt this weird tugging feeling at the back of my head, almost as if…as if a younger sibling were pulling my hair and whispering in my ear, "Finish the job, Amy."

"Fine then, Jenny," I muttered. I walked up to the front steps of the Gaunt mansion.

A little square of bright orange on the fine Arabian doormat caught my eye. Bending down, I could see it was a Post-It with a note scratched on it. I recognized the sloppy handwriting (even sloppier than mine) as John's:

_Mom and Phil and I are out battling the forces of evil. BRB. ~John G._

On most days I would've been like "Dude, you're not one for practical jokes. Did Eric put you up to this?"

But I only had to look around at all the sleeping people to know he wasn't kidding.

Sarah, meantime, had been packing, busy as a beaver (but don't say that to her).

I pawed through the backpack she handed to me. "A change of clothes? Flashlight? Vitamin water? Energy bars? What're we doing, looking for the Polar Express like Lewis and Bart?"

"Their names were Lewis and _Clark_ and they were looking for the _Northwest Passage_." She straightened up. "Amy, we have no idea what's out there. We need to be prepared for…anything. Scary as what we saw this morning was, we might see worse before the day is done."

"Scary as in 'what everyone thinks is scary' or scary as in 'what Sarah Blackwood thinks is scary'?"

"I'm not sure I understand."

"A lot of things you think are scary are considered 'hot' by the general population."

"I'd never deny that volcanos are hot, but most people think they're scary too."

"That wasn't what I meant by 'hot'."

Sarah groaned as she grabbed some cold cuts and veggies from the fridge and started dropping them into Ziploc bags. "I know where _your_ mind is."

"Do you think Itex had anything to do with this?" I asked, gesturing at the window and the scene outside.

"They're a research company, right?" Her voice was deliberately flat.

"They're not just any research company…they're the evil research company that created the Flock of Bird Kids."

"You shouldn't put stock in urban legends and media hype. No such creatures exist."

I stood on my tiptoes and got right in her face. "How can you say that? And they're not 'creatures'. They're people. You met one. You looked in his eyes and talked with him."

"Amy, how is this relevant to the current problem?"

"Try to contact Fang. Write something on his blog. I know he'll help you."

Sarah sighed deeply like she was trying hard to control her temper. "If you think it'll do any good, you go do that. But I've got better things to do than calling on the aid of an imaginary character. God only knows what's happening to my brother right now. You have a jackknife?"

While she gathered any last minute first aid supplies, I went into George's study.

There it hung on the wall, between two bookshelves and behind his desk and chair: the honorary samurai sword that Blackwood's dad had picked up in his days as a Marine during World War II.

I stood on the chair and gingerly lifted the sword from the pegs it rested on.

The thing was covered in dust. Nobody had touched it in years. Sarah told me later it was a ceremonial possession and old James Blackwood wouldn't have even used it in combat, which was pretty lame, because it was a good-looking weapon.

I unsheathed it, super-slow so I wouldn't slice off my arm or anything. The blade was all rusted, as you'd expect.

The sword made me feel unexplainably great. I held it up dramatically to admire it. I felt like I could be a warrior, the next Noah of Arc or something.

"Can we take this?" I asked Sarah when she came in, well aware that I sounded like a little kid begging her mom for a puppy.

She frowned. "An unfortunate side effect of carrying conspicuous weapons around is that everyone who meets you assumes you know how to use them—"

"Stop talking like a book," I cut in. People tell me I'm kind of rude that way. "Won't we need it?"

"I hope we won't. I hope we won't have to use any of the weapon-like items I packed."

"But _why_? If we're going into mortal danger, we might as well have some fun and kick some butt while we're at it."

"Have you never heard of Gandhi?"

"I read about him in school. He was this bald guy from India who walked a lot."

"To think this generation will run the world someday," she grumbled. "Amy, Gandhi forced the English and their corruption out of India using peace and nonviolence. He changed the world without ever raising a hand to strike his enemies."

I laid the sword on George's desk and studied the patterns in its rust. "Peace and nonviolence sounds really boring."

"You're hopeless."

"Well, it was your bright idea that we arm ourselves, remember? Make up your mind! Either we're ready to face anything, or we just sit around making daisy chains and singing 'All We Are Saying Is Give Peace A Chance' while the city collapses around us. Take your pick."

Sarah sank into George's armchair.

"You have a point," she said at last. "We have no clue what we're dealing with. It is probably malicious. Some things cannot be reasoned with, and resisting them nonviolently will only get us turned into remarkably large, charred pieces of toast. We're of no use to Ron or anyone else that way." She got up and walked restlessly out of the room. "Take the sword, Amy, but put it in your backpack so…sentient life-forms can't see it."

…**.**

The walk from the house to Central Park was obviously one of the most eerie experiences of my life up to that point—and I'd seen some strange things before, let me tell you.

Sarah and I didn't say anything on the walk. Each was lost in her own thoughts.

She'd told me earlier going to Central Park was God's idea that had slipped into her head as she prayed. From there maybe we could figure out where Ron had gone.

I wasn't sure how safe it was to pin our survival on a prayer, but I didn't have any better ideas, so for now I went along with it.

…**.**

Sarah sat Buddha-style under a tree in Central Park, eyes closed, hands palms up on her knees. I guess she was looking for more divine guidance. I sat facing her, tearing blades of grass. At every sound I twitched.

The back of my neck prickled, and I knew we were being watched.

On a bench sat a long human figure, dressed in black, sitting up alert.

"Sarah? Someone else is awake too."

"What sort of 'someone else'?"

"Looks human. I think it's a guy."

"What's he doing?"

"Sitting on a park bench."

"Eying us girls with bad intent?"

"I…don't…think…so…" I started to shiver.

She dared one of those weird smiles of hers. "It was a joke, Amy."

"This is no time for jokes!"

"Sometimes you need to joke in a stressful situation. It might be what keeps you sane."

"Whatever. I don't get it."

She opened her eyes and stood up, brushing the grass and dirt off her long cargo shorts. "Should we go investigate?"

"Why are you awake, children of Adam?" asked someone behind her—a smooth male voice with a golden tone and a snarky delivery.

I jumped about thirty feet in the air. Sarah's eyes nearly leapt out of her skull, but she regained her composure by the time she turned to face him.

"How kind of you, sir," she said flatly. "We were just about to go find you, but you've spared us the trouble."

He stood over six feet high and probably weighed about 115 pounds. He wore glittery black skinny jeans and a bright purple v-neck t-shirt. The t-shirt had a picture of a pale boy with combed-over dark hair in a business suit and the caption was in silver letters: FOWL 2012.

I had to crane my neck to look upon the stranger's face. He had a golden glow to his skin, and longish jagged black hair with rainbow highlights. His features were quite lovely, but his kohl-lined eyes were weird—huge, round but slanted, yellow-green, with rectangular pupils _and no whites._ These were cat eyes, not human eyes. He looked about eighteen or nineteen years old.

Sarah told me later that she thought he looked like a freak. However I'm the type who likes Bill Kaulitz, Andy Biersack, Pete Wentz, Adam Lambert, and thought Freddie Mercury looked great back when he had long hair and no mustache—so of course I considered this mystery guy incredibly hot.

"Um, hi," I stammered. "Why did you call us 'children of Adam'?"

He leaned against the tree, dragging his fingers through his hair. His nails were painted metallic green-gold to match his eyes and he wore a lot of rings that glittered in the early morning sun.

"Don't distress yourself over it. It's just a fancy word for 'humans.'"

Sarah studied him. Next to him even she looked short. "What would we be if not human?"

"Any number of things." He waved his hand dismissively. "You could be djinn, faeries, naiads, dryads, vampires, demigods, Nephilim, werewolves…"

"Then how can you tell we're human?" I interrupted.

"Let's say I see things like that clearly. Sometimes—once in a century or two—I'm wrong."

"What are you?" She'd made her voice even deeper again. I'd noticed she did that whenever she felt threatened.

He smirked. "_I_ am the most powerful warlock in Brooklyn."

"Whatcha doin' in Manhattan, then?" I asked.

"None of your business," he shot back, not looking at me.

He'd been studying Sarah, the way that people often looked at her when they were trying to figure out if she was a boy or a girl. Now his eyes turned to me and they began to glow. I wondered what that meant.

"Where are my manners?" he mused. He outstretched a hand toward me. "My name is Magnus Bane. What do they call you?"

"Uh…I'm Amy Porter, and this is my cousin, Sarah." We shook hands. I could feel his energy running faster than human blood under the skin of his palm.

He looked at her, perplexed. "Sarah? That isn't the first name that came to mind…ah, I'm no one to talk."

She ignored the insult. "If you're the most powerful warlock in Brooklyn, can you tell us what happened to the city during the night?"

Magnus' eyes slid toward the Empire State Building. "Morpheus sent the whole mortal population to sleep on the orders of Kronos."

At the word "Kronos" the air around us got a bit colder, and the shadows seemed longer.

"They've been waiting eons for this," he continued. "Demons, monsters, Titans, giants…their revenge will destroy them too, but they don't know that yet."

"Who's Kronos?" I asked.

Magnus eased his long frame to the ground. "Sit down, girls. I suppose I must tell you the long, sad tale of Tartarus rising, and it might take a few hours."

**Please review! And while you're at it, check out this Fiction Press story: **_**Saving Discandor **_**by Ninja Pirate from the Future, known here on FF as girlreadsalot. Here's the link: s/3031278/1/Saving_Discandor. It's a medieval fantasy with a modern protagonist, so check it out if you like **_**Lord of the Rings, **_**the **_**Chronicles of Narnia, The Pendragon Adventure, **_**or the **_**Inheritance Cycle. **_**Check it out even if you don't like those books; I think it's very good. ~GwF**


	26. XXI: Tartarus Rising

**AN: **The "sitting on a park bench" joke was a shout-out to the song "Aqualung" by Jethro Tull, one of the greatest bands of the classic rock era.

The italicized text is not supposed to be either Magnus or Amy speaking; I know neither of them talks like that. It's a third person narrator. When the font is in brackets and not italicized, that's Amy's commentary. Also, I understand that a lot of this stuff will be obvious to _Percy Jackson _readers, but nowhere in that series is the whole story set down. Most Greek mythology books tell the story this way.

I apologize for the lack of stuff blowing up so far and promise that there will be action in upcoming chapters. Hang in there.

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><p>XXI. Tartarus Rising.<p>

I knelt in the tree's shadow. Magnus sat Indian-style near me. On my other side, Sarah crouched, her pointy elbows making her look like a grasshopper. She glared at Magnus with hooded eyes. He ignored her hostility.

This is the story he told.

**...**

_In the beginning, there was darkness. In the darkness was Chaos—a whirling mass of cosmic material and unshaped energy._

_ As the movement of Chaos slowed down, it formed into three giant beings. The solid became Gaia, the Earth. The air filled with stars and became Uranus, the Sky. And between them lay Eros, spirit of Love, the most powerful force in this world, perhaps in any._

_ Gaia could see the sparkling majesty of Uranus through Eros. Uranus likewise could see the fertile solidity of Gaia. In due time she brought forth his offspring._

_ These first children of Gaia and Uranus were intelligent, and magnificent to look upon. Their form they shared with humans (who did not yet exist) but they were vastly larger and they controlled different aspects of the cosmos being created around them. At first there were only twelve—six boys and six girls—but as they matured their species increased. They were called the Titans, and both their parents were proud of them._

_ Gaia became pregnant again. She now birthed three male giants who each had one eye in the middle of their foreheads. They were ugly and rather brutish, but they were skilled in the crafting of metal. They became known as the Cyclopes._

_ Her third litter were triplets again—three more male giants, these with a hundred arms each. They were called the Hecatonchires or the Hundred-Handed Ones; like the Cyclopes, they were ugly creatures who forged beautiful things._

_ Mysteriously, other life forms were appearing during this era and for a long time after: nymphs, humans, animals and plants. They were small beings, at the mercy of the Titans._

_ Gaia loved all her children equally, but Uranus did not. He saw his own beauty in the Titans, but not in the others. He wondered in disgust how he could have ever sired such hideous beings. _

_ In the unfathomable vacant space below Gaia lay the great pit of Tartarus, a Pit so great not even Uranus' starry eyes could pierce to the bottom of it. He took his six malformed sons to the brink of Tartarus one day, and dropped them over the edge of it. _

_ Much as Gaia loved her husband, she loved her children more; they were part of her. They always came first. _

_ She took aside Kronos, the youngest and cleverest of the Titans, and gave him a great sharp scythe that she had fashioned deep within herself._

_ "Kronos, I give you permission to kill your father. Throw him into Tartarus. See how he likes it. This can never happen again. All my children must be free."_

_ Kronos, who had always longed for his father's power, obeyed her without a second thought. He chopped Uranus into thousands of pieces and cast him into the Pit. _[Yet, for reasons that no one has ever bothered to explain, we still have a sky].

_ Kronos then assumed kingship of the universe. He took his sister, Rhea, as his wife and queen _[ew]_. The other Titans became his courtiers. He also kept the company of nymphs, and even humans were sometimes brought in for entertainment._

_ But Kronos broke his promise to his mother. He didn't care for the Cyclopes and the Hundred-Handed Ones any more than his father had. Kronos was beautiful, and ugliness hurt his selfish eyes. He did not set his monstrous brothers free._

_ He was also consumed by fear that one of his children would overthrow him in the same way he had overthrown his father. _[You'd think that he could avoid this whole problem by celibacy, but nobody ever does anything that makes sense in Greek mythology]. _Whenever his wife, Rhea, birthed a child, Kronos would have the infant brought to him. He would cradle the baby in his great arms, eyes misted with fatherly joy…and then he would swallow it whole._

_ (On a side note, Kronos had children by other women, like Philyra the nymph, who bore him the centaur Chiron. To the best of our knowledge, Kronos never tried to kill those kids. He apparently only worried about the children of Rhea)._

_ Rhea lost five children this way. She was trapped by her tyrannical husband and had to obey his orders. No other Titans were brave enough to oppose him._

_ But Gaia was ever watchful, and she saw that Kronos had become even more corrupt than Uranus. Time for another revolution._

_ When Rhea delivered her sixth child, she wrapped a Titan-baby-sized stone in swaddling cloth and sent it to Kronos, who was by now so used to this routine that he did not even wonder at what a silent, cold, heavy baby he was swallowing. The real infant was meanwhile spirited away to a secret cave on the island of Crete. Gaia had prepared it for her little grandson's upbringing, and with her powers hid it even from the all-piercing eyes of Kronos._

_ The little Titan boy was named Zeus. The rebellious nymphs recruited by Gaia raised him. Zeus always knew as he grew up that his destiny was to kill his father and take the cosmic throne._

_ His best friend was a young Titan girl named Metis. She was prudent and clever. Zeus was neither, but he was handsome and powerful. They made a perfect team. When they came of age, they married. Then they left the island to wage war on his father._

_ Meanwhile Zeus' five siblings were not dead. All this time they had grown inside Kronos' stomach. It was the only world they'd ever known, but it was getting awfully crammed. As for Kronos, he was becoming rather concerned about his constant stomachaches and apparently uncontrollable weight gain. What could be causing it?_

_ Zeus descended to Tartarus. He fought his way through the starry fragments of his grandfather's corpse to find his uncles, the Cyclopes and the Hundred-Handed Ones. "I'm going to overthrow Kronos," he told them. "Join my revolution, and I will set you free." Their ugliness repulsed him just as much as it had Uranus and Kronos, but Zeus knew from his grandmother that beauty was not the only power._

_ The disenfranchised sons of Gaia allied themselves with their audacious nephew at once. Upon returning to the upper world they began forging weapons for the war._

_ Metis, meanwhile, had gone to Kronos and given him a magic herb, which made him vomit up his five other children. There were three girls—Hestia, Demeter, and Hera—and two boys, Hades and Poseidon. Once Metis had whisked them to a safe place, she told them the whole tale. Without any hesitation they threw in their lot with Zeus._

_ War broke out, and all the Earth was ravaged by it. Mountains were torn from their roots. Gods and Titans drew ichor on air, land and sea. Smaller animals, including humans, were wiped out during the conflict and had to be reinvented _post bellum.

_ Zeus ended the war at last by chopping his father into a million pieces and casting them into Tartarus._

_ Those Titans who had sided with the young gods were given power and rewards. The Cyclopes and Hundred-Handed Ones were also honored, though in future years they would once again be despised for their ugliness. _

_ Those Titans who had sided with Kronos were punished severely. Some were cast into Tartarus alongside their lord. Others paid more creative penalties—Atlas was forced to hold the sky on his shoulders, while his daughter Calypso was confined to the island Ogygia for eternity…_

…**..**

"Pity about Calypso," Magnus finished. His green-gold eyes were soft and dreamy, staring at something no one else could see. "Such a nice girl. I washed up on Ogygia on an adventure once and stayed with her awhile. She wanted to me to stay forever, but—"

"Back to Kronos," Sarah cut in. She'd shown no emotion for most of the story (she told me she'd read it before several times). But once he mentioned Calypso, Sarah was now even tenser than she had been before.

I shot her a look like _What'd you do that for? I'm curious!_

Then it hit me that I hadn't even questioned any part of Magnus' tale. That made me nervous enough that I decided to lie low awhile and let the conversation unfold.

The High Warlock of Brooklyn rolled his eyes at her. "If you _must_ know, matter and energy are neither created nor destroyed. Even your silly little mundane scientists have figured that out. Kronos is not dead."

"That much I surmised," Sarah returned.

"But I thought Zeus chopped him up and dropped them into the Abyss," I cut in. "How'd he survive?"

Magnus looked a lot friendlier when he turned his face to me. "There's a sad irony to the universe, Amy. When a 'good' sentient life form—god, demigod, Nephilim, human, what-have-you—dies, they're permanently dead, and their spirit will float into the stars or perhaps reincarnate. 'Bad' sentient life forms on the other hand go body and soul back to whatever inferno they came from, nurse their wounds, and return in the same shape to the worlds of the living. Depending on the powers of the demon and the manner of their death, this restoration process might take anywhere from six months to six centuries. Kronos was such a force that it took him about three thousand years."

"OK, thanks." I wasn't sure I understood, but it was nice of him to explain.

"But what does Kronos _want_?" Sarah asked.

"What do you _think_ he wants?" Magnus said this like this answer was as obvious as whether water is wet. "Have you never read any fantasy novels?"

"I don't care for the genre; there's nothing to learn from it. Why do you ask?"

"Pick up pretty much any fantasy book and it will include a villain who wants to take over the universe, obliterate the forces of good, and bend whatever's left of humanity to his (or occasionally her) nefarious will. In that respect they are quite realistic."

"I keep forgetting that I'm talking to a warlock," she grumbled. "Does Kronos want to kill and/or subjugate anything in his path, or is his wrath limited to the Olympian gods?"

"His plan is to destroy this whole world," he replied matter-of-factly. "He leads his army now hosted by a demigod. Soon he will burn away the boy's body and rule in his own dread form. His first targets are the gods and their children, but his victory will render this planet unable to support human life. Most animals will die too. The Nephilim and all us Down-worlders (except maybe the vampires) will either starve or become enslaved. Then all living things on this planet will wither; Hyperion will scorch the face of the Earth and dry up the seas; and Mother Gaia herself will perish in agony. Thus ends what the Norse called Ragnarök, Twilight of the Gods."

"Why did Morpheus put the other humans to sleep when he could've just killed them?"

"Humans make useful slaves."

Magnus said this with no emotion. I wondered if he too, thought humans were merely "useful slaves" and edged closer to Sarah. Sensing my fear, she put her arm around me.

"My brother went missing early this morning," she stated. "He left a note saying he had life-or-death business to attend to. His name is Ron. He's twelve years old, on the short side, with long unkempt reddish hair. Might've been carrying a guitar and a laptop. Have you seen someone matching that description?"

The warlock fiddled with one of his bracelets. "Yes. I met him. I was sitting here waiting this morning, before the sun was up. I was joined by a young bird girl called Nudge, who told me she'd left her Flock and needed to visit…" his voice dropped to a whisper "…the Itex Institute for Higher Learning."

I could not resist shooting a _what did I tell you _look at Sarah. She ignored me.

"And the Itex Institute for Higher Learning is…?"

"A prison of the worst description. Run by Itex, a soulless mundie corporation bent on eliminating every supernatural force—_including Kronos—_and controlling all life." Magnus shivered, though the afternoon sun poured heat down on us even in the tree's shadow. "They've kidnapped friends of mine—faeries, werewolves, vampires. They've killed them and shocked them back to life and cut them apart and sewed them back together all wrong, as if they were merely more lab rats.

"Anyway, Nudge had been there before. She'd come to the city looking for her friend Fang, whom she believed had been captured and brought back there. She claimed that 'someone she knew she could trust' had told her to wait in this park till a good travelling companion came along.

"Your brother came in following this big locust-y thing I'd never seen before that was playing a flute and singing in a language I've never heard. And I can speak most of the tongues of all creatures."

Sarah's eyes had gotten a lot bigger and she was smiling. I'd have to ask her about the locust thing later.

Magnus continued, "The locust disappeared just as the sun finally rose. Your brother sat on one of these benches for a while, playing Simon & Garfunkel. He seemed kind of lost, so I brought Nudge over and suggested he join her. I gave them some supplies and they were on their way."

"You just sent them over to this evil place where they torture people?" I asked. "But Ron's only twelve, and Nudge isn't much older."

"I was doing far more dangerous things at their age," he replied.

"How old are you?" I blurted out.

"Nineteen."

"Is that young to be the most powerful warlock in Brooklyn?"

"I've _been_ nineteen for the past seven-hundred-eighty-one years."

"Ah." See? I catch on to stuff pretty fast.

Sarah stood. I jumped to my feet too.

"Bane, can you give us directions to this Institute?" she asked.

Magnus shook his head. "I do not know the way. Few who enter those doors come out again, and those that do…aren't very good at retracing their steps."

He stood. Once again I was shocked by his height. I'm used to people towering over me, but I know Sarah's not.

"However," he continued, "I know that if you go into the subway tunnels tonight, you might find someone who will help you—someone who's been there before, and escaped."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you or it would ruin the surprise."

"I see," she said flatly. She walked away to retrieve her backpack.

"Sir?" I asked once she was out of earshot.

He smirked at me. "_You_ can call me Magnus."

"Can anything be done to stop Kronos?"

"It's a bit late for that, I'm afraid. There's a demigod army headquartered somewhere on the island, but they don't stand a chance. My advice is to find all your loved ones and get to another world while you still have time. It's a bit hard for mundies to do that, but since you're not effected by Morpheus' spell, maybe you could pull it off."

"How much time do you think we have?"

"A week at best."

"What are you going to do?"

"My business is my own, Miss Porter."

"Are you going to help the demigods?"

"Perhaps, if they ask nicely." His eyes drifted to the hilt of James Blackwood's sword, which was sticking out of my backpack (we hadn't been able to fit it all the way). "Can I have a look at that?"

If he'd wanted to kill us, he could've a long time ago. I took the sword out and handed it to him.

He unsheathed it and looked the blade over. "A little rusty, don't you think?"

I nodded. "But it's the best we've got."

I heard a metallic zinging noise and saw a brief flash of light. Light appeared to pour from Magnus' jewelry as he brought his armored fingers swiftly down the length of the blade.

I gasped—I knew he was a warlock, but that was the first time I'd ever seen real magic done. All the rust had vanished. The sword shone like it had just been forged. The freshly sharpened blade looked almost thirsty for the black blood of demons.

Magnus smiled at his handiwork and gave it back to me. "It'll slay many more monsters now."

"Thanks."

He reached into the pockets of his tight pants and pulled out what appeared to be energy bars. "Take these. You'll get hungry."

"We've already got a lot of food packed," I said, not knowing why looking at the energy bars gave me a creepy feeling. Was warlock food safe?

"It's a gift," he stated, then reached over my head and stuffed them into my backpack.

Sarah sprinted back. "Thank you for your help, Sir," she grunted. "We will now head to this evil Institute to save my little brother just in time for the Apocalypse. You ready, Amy?"

"Yep."

"Have fun!" Magnus trilled. "Best of luck!"

Sarah and I exchanged a look of stupefied horror.

He turned to me. "By the way, is that your natural hair color?"

Whoa, where had that come from? I looked down at my long blood red locks. "No. I'm naturally blonde."

Roughly he grabbed my hand and wrote something on the palm in pen.

And then he vanished from our sight.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> While you're here, check out the excellent PJO/MI crossover _Lies, _by Pyg'm ( s/7774858/1/Lies). Thanks!


	27. XXII: A Cruelly Short Reunion

**AN: **Wow, over 100 reviews! Thanks guys! Big cyber hugs all around! You're amazing!

There will be action in the story now. I apologize that there has been so little up to this point. My favorite authors are Jane Austen and J.R.R. Tolkien, and in their books, for everything that actually happens, the characters spend twice as much time standing around talking about it. They are superb writers, so they can pull it off. I am not a superb writer, and I am learning I cannot. Anyway, this will get much more entertaining now—battles, chases, monsters, explosions, cool weapons, and maybe even a hint of romance. Thank you for sticking with me this long.

All the phone numbers given in my stories are either 777-7777 or 999-9999 unless there's a good reason otherwise. Also, it's been awhile since I read _Pendragon, _so I apologize profusely if Bobby, Press and Saint Dane are somewhat OOC.

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><p>XXII. A Cruelly Short Reunion.<p>

We didn't feel safe lingering in Central Park after that, so Sarah and I found the nearest subway entrance and climbed in.

Fires burned in oil barrels in the darkness. Sleeping homeless people lay draped across their shabby belongings. The sight made me hurt inside. Where I grew up, everyone was lower middle-class—we didn't have money to blow on ninety-inch HDTVs or Cadillacs, but we never wanted for food, shelter or electricity.

People think I'm selfish, and to an extent, they're right. But don't think I don't notice the extremes of rich and poor in a place like New York. Much as I hate my stepfather, I'm grateful to live in his house when I remember that other girls my age (many in this very city) are homeless, or sold into slavery.

There was no sign of the subway itself. I figured it was off sleeping somewhere too, if trains can sleep.

Sarah and I found an empty space where we could lay down our backpacks. Luckily we both were wearing wristwatches—otherwise we'd never know time was passing down there beyond the reach of sunlight.

We broke out the sandwiches we'd packed for lunch.

"Do you think Magnus Bane was what he said he was?" I asked with my mouth full. "Do you think he can be trusted?"

Sarah creased her thick black eyebrows in thought. "I think he was indeed a warlock. I hate to think that things like that exist, but I see now there's no point in denying that they can. Is he trustworthy? I believe not. Something about him gave me the creeps. Have you ever seen anyone that tall? And those whiteless eyes…" she shuddered.

"I'm not sure what to think of him," I replied. "He was nice, but there was definitely something…not quite right about him. He seemed to want to help us, though. He de-rusted the sword with magic and gave us some energy bars in case we run out of food."

"I'm not sure we should eat anything he touched. It might be poisoned, or worse…Amy, what did he write on your hand?"

I'd completely forgotten about that. I put down the remainder of my sandwich and uncurled my fingers. My palm reflected the glow of the nearest fire.

Magnus' handwriting was loose but legible: _777-7777 Call me!_

My cousin and I looked at each other in disbelief. "Sarah, do you think he likes me or something?"

"Let's not even talk about it, ok?" She seemed shaken.

I felt a swirl of disparate emotions. On the one hand, Magnus was hot and had awesome powers, but on the other hand, he was a warlock, possibly evil, and he claimed to be several centuries older than me.

Well, it wasn't like this relationship could go anywhere anyway. The world would end in a week, and we'd probably never see each other again.

We needed to keep talking, though—if only to drown out the eerie snoring.

"Sarah? Had you ever met Percy Jackson before moving here?"

Her eyebrows shot straight up. "How did you guess?"

"Because while the rest of us are angry at him when we see him, you just look sad."

"You're very observant, Amy." She sighed and leaned back against the filthy wall. "He was my only friend from outside the family, way back from the year Ron and I went to school."

"But I thought you guys were always homeschooled."

"Nope. Ron convinced our parents to let us try it out. Let's just say the experience did not make us want to come back."

Suddenly behind us we heard voices. Other people were awake—a man and a boy. And when I heard the boy's voice, my heart soared. I thought I'd never hear him speak again.

"Where are you taking me?" he hissed. "Do Mom and Dad know what you're doing? I've got a game tonight. I need to go home right now, or my team's gonna—"

The man cut him off here. "Bobby, have you not noticed that everyone else is asleep? Don't you think that's a bit suspicious?"

"Not everyone back in Stony Brook was asleep."

"Rest assured they are by now."

"Where are you taking me, Uncle Press?"

They came into view. I'd never seen the man before; he was a classy-looking fellow in a trench coat. But I knew his nephew, and when our eyes met, I saw that he remembered that he knew me.

Sarah and I rose to our feet.

"Amy?" the boy asked.

"Bobby?" I returned. "What are you doing here?"

"I have no idea. You?"

"I'm not really sure either."

I took his hand and shook it. I looked up into his pretty brown eyes, wondering if it was safe to hug him. "Sarah, this is Bobby Pendragon, who I used to go to school with. Bobby, this is my cousin, Sarah Blackwood. And you are—?" I gestured to the man in the trench coat.

"My name is Press. I'm Bobby's uncle." We all shook hands.

"Sir?" Sarah asked Press. "Perhaps you could explain what's happened to the city? I've heard conflicting accounts from those who are still awake…"

"I'll gladly tell you," he replied, "but we need to keep moving. Bobby and I have somewhere we need to be, and you girls probably don't want to remain in the same place too long either. There are many hunters abroad today."

Press seemed to know the way to…somewhere. He and Sarah walked on; Bobby and I lagged a little behind.

This was awkward. When I was in middle school I'd lived in Stony Brook, the same suburb as Bobby. We were pretty good friends, despite him being a popular jock and me being a fatherless emo girl. I'd had a huge crush on him. But since Mom married George and we moved into the city proper, Bobby and I lost touch.

"So…how's life been treating you?"I asked.

Bobby shrugged. "It was going great until this evening. I'm the most valued basketball player at Stony Brook High. And I finally kissed Courtney Chetwynde."

I grunted, not at all sure that I liked that news. He was just as cute as he'd always been. I'd always known he liked beautiful, charismatic Courtney better than any other girl—certainly a lot more than me.

"Your uncle seems like an interesting character."

"Yeah, I'm sure you must've met him at one of my birthday parties or something. But today he showed up at my house—interrupting my moment with Courtney, mind you—to tell me I needed to come with him right now. Only then did I see that nearly everyone in the metropolitan area is out cold. He rode me down here and he _left his motorcycle_ above ground. I guess he figures no one's awake to steal it. What's been going on with you, Amy?"

I filled him in briefly on what had happened to me since my mother's marriage: how Rachel had dumped pretty much everyone for Percy, how my band had frequent gigs now, how Sarah and Ron had come to live with us, and finally, how we'd seen all these unexplainable things around the city leading up to the Big Nap.

I didn't mention Magnus. I doubt Bobby would've known anything about him, but Press might've…looking back, perhaps I should've asked him about the High Warlock of Brooklyn.

"I think I've met Percy," Bobby remarked. "Or rather, I saw him take a sword to some crotchety old guys who were really octopus demon things on the subway once." He paused, and we looked each other in the eye with horror—neither of us had found that last statement shocking.

We were walking at a fast clip. Press and Sarah managed to stay ahead of us. Both of them looked behind them frequently, to make sure nothing had reached out of the dark to snatch Bobby or me. I wondered what they were talking about.

"Where are you guys going?"

"Press says there's somewhere down here he needs to bring me. But he won't tell me anything about it." He shivered, but squared his shoulders like he didn't want me to know he was scared. Perhaps he wasn't quite as supernaturally gorgeous as some of the other boys in this story, but he still looked great, especially now, with the fire glowing off the edge of his jawbone and his dark brown hair.

"Bobby, what do you think of the Bird Kids?"

"They're awesome! Max is hot. And I want Fang and Iggy on my basketball team."

"Do you remember hearing about that Institute in this city that they broke into?"

"Yeah. Didn't sound like a fun place to hang out."

"That's where Sarah and I are going."

"Why?" He looked at me with concern. Not for the first time I wondered how things would have resolved between us if he'd never met Courtney. "Amy, that sounds kind of dangerous…"

We almost walked right into Sarah and Press, who had come to an abrupt halt. There was a third person standing in their way—a cop.

"I'm afraid you're not authorized to be down here," the policeman was saying almost maliciously.

Colors are hard to see in firelight and shadow, but I could tell the cop's uniform was khaki or some other light color. NYPD officers wear dark blue uniforms. Not to mention all of them were apparently asleep.

"Who's your young friend, Press?" he continued, gesturing at Sarah (I guess he didn't see Bobby or me). "I'd say Nephilim, judging from the smell, but it can't be. The shadow-hunters are legendary for their beauty."

Press replied like he didn't want to waste any time arguing. "Your quarrel is with me, Saint Dane. Leave the kids alone."

With that he reached into his trench coat and pulled out a gun.

The cop's appearance changed. Suddenly he was freakishly tall, wearing a long black coat. He had long white hair and horribly bright blue eyes.

He held a gun, too, and I had a feeling that wasn't the most dangerous weapon he carried.

I'm not sure who fired first, but the tunnel echoed with gunfire.

"Run, all of you!" Press shouted.

"No!" Bobby exclaimed. "You're my uncle! I can't just let you die."

"Don't worry about me, Bobby. If _you_ getkilled, my errand was in vain." He shoved Bobby at Sarah. "Make sure he gets to the door with the star drawn on it. And once he gets there, he has to say 'Denduron' or it won't work. Good luck finding your brother." With that he turned back to face Saint Dane alone.

We three teenagers ran like our heels were burning. Every time one of us stumbled in the dark, my heart nearly leapt out of my mouth. Eventually we reached a stretch with a flickering light overhead, instead of fires lining the tunnel. Sure enough, built into one of the grimy walls was a door, and drawn on the door in black marker was a star.

"Here we are," I panted.

Bobby stared saucer-eyed at the door. Slowly he walked toward it. I walked beside him. Sarah brought up the rear, turning her gaze all around to make sure we were the only sentient beings in the area. She held our sword aloft, and for a peace-loving hippie homeschooler, she sure looked dangerous wielding it. Far behind us we could hear gunshots echoing.

Sweat dripped off Bobby's hair down his cheeks.

"Did either of you catch what he told me to say?" he asked hoarsely.

"Denduron," I volunteered.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he muttered.

He turned and shook Sarah's hand. "Thanks for your help. I hope you find your brother."

"I am honored to have helped," she replied. "Your Uncle Press seems like a good man. I hope you succeed in your errand, too."

"Goodbye, Bobby," I croaked. All the anxious running had parched my throat. "If we never see each other again—remember you were one of my best friends, and you were there when I needed you most."

In response, Bobby hugged me. "Goodbye, Amy. I'm glad I got to see you before the end. Take care of yourself." He was very warm, and he smelled like Arm & Hammer.

Releasing me, he turned, opened the door and said, "Denduron."

Light filled the doorframe, so bright you'd think a star was exploding right there. For a moment Bobby stood silhouetted black and resolute against them, then the light swallowed him. A great noise swallowed the gunshot echoes. Sarah and I dropped to the ground in case of an explosion.

The light and noise then vanished as suddenly as it had come.

The gunshots did not.

I reached across the grimy tunnel floor to touch Sarah's hand. "Should we go back and help Press?"

She jumped up and pulled me to my feet. "He seems to know what he's doing. We'd probably be more of a hindrance than a help."

I looked one last time at the door with the star drawn on it. You'd never think it had just swallowed a teenage boy in a blaze of light and sound and dropped him off somewhere on the other side of the universe.

Then we ran through the barely-illumined dark until we couldn't hear the gunshots anymore.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Thanks for reading this far! I'm sorry that my action sequences are so lame. I will work diligently to improve them.

While you're here, check out this fantastic PJO + MI crossover, _Too many half-bloods in New York City _( s/7915304/1/To_many_Half_bloods_in_New_York_City) by cat cruz 97. ~GwF


	28. XXIII: Our Name is Nico

**AN: **I apologize for the wait between updates. I was already suffering from severe writer's block when news broke of this horrifying shooting in Colorado. It's hard to enjoy anything when something so terrible has happened, even when you live far away and you don't know anyone who was slain or injured.

But when such abominations occur, one must remember to do whatever she/he can to alleviate the pain of the victims, even if it's only making them smile for a moment. If anyone from or near Aurora, CO, is reading this, know that I cannot comprehend your loss and I am praying for your healing.

* * *

><p>XXIII. Our Name is Nico.<p>

We stopped after running for what felt like miles. Both of us were too nervous to eat. We talked as little as possible, not knowing what might be lurking beyond the small circles of firelight. Sarah took the first watch. I leaned back against the grimy wall and drifted into a frightened sleep.

I heard a high-pitched, barely human scream that did not belong to anything in my dark dream. The voice hurt my ears, so why did I feel like I needed to run _toward_ it? Back I ran through a labyrinth of nightmares until I awoke.

At first I wondered why everything was so dark, why my room smelled so bad, and how my bed had gotten so hard. It took a few blinks to remember everything that had happened since.

I also had to process what was happening next to me.

Sarah was locked in battle with a horribly gaunt humanoid. All I could see of the thing itself were its legs, which were barely covered in ancient flesh that exposed every blue vein. It was dressed in a black leather jacket and SpongeBob Squarepants swim trunks, which would have made me laugh if the thing wasn't sitting on my cousin trying to strangle her.

She was trying her best, but it kind of showed that she wasn't used to fighting and didn't like it. She needed help.

Trying to make my yawn sound like a battle cry, I flung myself at the creature and dislodged it.

It screeched and flailed at me. I felt its teeth on my wrist, but I pushed my knees down harder, trying to squeeze the breath out of it. This gave Sarah enough time to get up and fetch our sword from her backpack. I climbed off, and she pointed the blade at the creature's throat. She may have had no idea how to fight, but she sure looked scary holding that thing in the firelight.

The creature began to sob-screech again where it lay. "Don't hurt us!" it sniveled. "Put the nasty sword away! We never meant to hurt them, did we? No we didn't. We didn't mean to hurt the nice legacy and its friend, we're just starving and desperate and we needs to find the other half-bloodses, yes precious! Silly legacy is a bundle of raw nerveses."

Sarah and I exchanged an incredulous look—or rather, my mouth dropped open about seven feet, and she raised one eyebrow.

It couldn't be.

Correction: it could be. It definitely could be. We'd talked to a warlock earlier, we'd seen a portal swallow my childhood crush, and we knew the city was sleeping because of the Greek gods. Anything is possible.

"Put the sword away, nice legacy. It wouldn't tricks us."

Sarah cleared her throat. "You wouldn't happen to be named Gollum? Or do you prefer Sméagol?"

Gollum sat up. "Sméagol, precious, what's a Sméagol? What's a Gollum? Those don't sound very nice, precious. Our name is Nico di Angelo. Put the sword down."

"What assurance do we have that you're not going to try to kill us again?"

His huge pale eyes swelled with greed. "Will it bring us to the other half-bloodses?"

"We'll bring you to the other half-bloods if you tell us what they are," I jumped in.

"Ssss, ssss. It's tricksing us. It knows perfectly well what a half-blood is."

Sarah paused. "Would they happen to be children of the gods?"

"Yesss, that's it! Clever legacy. Of course it knows."

"However, I am a bit confused why you're calling me a legacy. What does that mean?"

He started crawling towards me; I backed away accordingly. "Legacy," he continued over his shoulder. "It's not a half-blood, but it's close, yesss. It has blood of godses in it."

"And I'm one of these? How can you tell?"

"We smells it on you." Now he sniffed me. "And what's its friend, eh? We wonders, yes we wonders." His eyes widened so drastically they nearly swallowed the rest of his head. Then his shriek of horror filled the tunnel.

"Bloodsucker, precious! VAMPIRE!" He scrambled away.

Sarah put the sword at his throat again. "Hush. There are many hunters abroad, and I have a feeling you want to avoid them just as much as we do."

I shivered in agreement, thinking of Saint Dane.

The creature pointed at me with a shaking finger. "But it, it…We smells it, yess! We smells blood!" Turning to Sarah he added, "We'll help the legacy, but only if it leaves its _friend _behind."

"Wait a minute," I cut in. "Look, Gollum—er, Nico—I gather you must have a great sense of smell, but I am not a vampire. I have never been a vampire, or wanted to be one, and with any luck I never will be."

He hissed something unintelligible.

"Excuse me?"

"Can we see its fangses?"

"Sure." Making sure he could see me clearly in the firelight, I grinned. Gollum leaned in close enough for me to smell his breath (which almost made me upchuck).

"Hmm, no fangses, just regular human teethses." He crawled back to a comfortable distance. "But we smells bloodsucker still. Does it have bloodsucker friendses?"

"Uh, not that I know of…"

He spat. "If you brings us to the half-bloodses, we doesn't care. Just don't suck Nico's juices out, nice human."

"Don't worry."

Sarah sat down next to me. Gollum still crouched facing us.

"So, 'Nico,'" she said, "do you know where your fellow half-bloods are?"

"Sss, sss, the Empire Sssstate Building."

"Ah. Why are you wandering around the subway tunnels?"

"The same reason you are. Hunterses. They're not as likely to find us down here. Besides, we likes the dark. We were born to it, weren't we, precious? Yes, yessss, our...father is the...Lord of the Dead."

_Riiiight, _I thought.

Sarah laid the sword across her knees. "If we help you, I'm afraid we must ask you to help us in turn."

He started hissing nervously. "What does it have in mind?"

"Could you, perhaps, help us find the Itex Institute for Higher Living?"

Gollum now looked genuinely terrified. "Why does they want to go to _that_ evil place, precious?"

"They are holding hostage someone very…_precious_ to me: my little brother. We want to get him back."

"Oh. Nico had a brother once. But like everyone else, he drove us away…and we forgot the taste of bread…the sound of trees…poor, poor Sm—Nico."

"Have you been to this Institute before?" she interrupted.

He was shivering now. "Yessss…we've been there. Not a very nice place, was it, precious? No; not very nice at all. They put tubeses in us, and tapeses on us, and they put us in a cage. They wanted to know how we reacted to…foreign…DNA. And so many creatures! Some as stupid and ugly as orcses! Some with cruel elf eyes…like the human birdses. We likes birdses, nice, crunchable birdses. But not these birdses, no. Smico couldn't eat the human birdses." He shook his head.

"Do you know Magnus Bane?" I asked.

Gollum perked up a little. "Yess, we knows Magnussss! Nice Magnusss. He let us stay in his house and fed us lotsss of nice raw fisssssshh. Magnus is our friend. He hasn't tricksed us yet."

"Cool." I decided now was time to distort the truth a little. "Well, Nico…Magnus is our friend too, and he said that if we went into the tunnels tonight, we'd meet someone who'd been to the Institute and came out alive. Clearly you're that person. Will you help us? Apparently Magnus wants you to."

He gave a long sigh of resignation. "Yess. For Magnus, and for the nice legacy, and the nice human who smells like vampire, and for nice fish. Nico will show you the way. Nico will tell you the password. But once you get there, don't ask Nico to go inside. We can't ever go back into that nasty white place with the cages and the human birdses."

"Thank you, Nico!" I said, forcing a smile.

"Can we make another request?" he asked.

Sarah and I looked at each other. She shrugged. "Go ahead," I said.

"Does either of them have an iPod?"

Sarah hadn't thought to pack hers. But I am an aspiring rock star and a music addict. _I can't live without my iPod._ Slowly I pulled it out of my backpack and snapped in its pink-and-black Skull Candy earphones. It stung my soul to hand it over to that filthy creature, but as I did Sarah leaned over and whispered "if we get to another world, the first thing I'll do is buy you a new one." A fool's hope, but it made me feel a bit better.

Gollum took it and clutched it eagerly, slipping the headphones on. "Nice masters! Even Magnus won't let us use his. Smico has always wanted his own iPod, his precious. We used to steal new ones, but nobody would talk to us through those."

Clearly he didn't know that an iPod plays pre-recorded music. Given where he came from, that would be expected.

"So, who talks to you?" he asked, thumbing through my library. He turned the volume so high we could hear individual lyrics through the headphones.

_I, I'll get by…_

_ I, I'll survive…_

_ When the world's crashing down_

_ When I fall and hit the ground_

_ I will turn myself around_

_ Don't you try to stop me_

_ I, I won't cry…_

"Hmm," said he, and hit the skip button.

_Here I am _

_ A rabbit-hearted girl_

_ Frozen in the headlights_

_ It seems I've made the final sacrifice._

_ We raise it up, this offering_

_ We raise it up…_

"Does it have any Katy Perry?" he asked.

I swiveled the thumb pad around till I found _Wide Awake._

"We likes Katy Perry. She told us we were a fireworkses shooting across the sky."

"That's nice. But turn the volume down, ok? We don't want anybody else to hear."

He hissed at me, but he complied.

…

Gollum refused to lead us anywhere until he got some rest. He slept with my headphones on, but Sarah and I were still concerned that he could be faking and might hear us, so we spoke very little and only in whispers.

Neither of us could imagine how a specific book character had wound up in the real world (our world is the real world, right?), especially when he was last seen falling into a pit of boiling lava.

But anything was possible now.

If I had a dollar for every time I said that, I'd be a billionaire.

"I wonder," I said, "if there really is a Nico di Angelo out there somewhere."

Sarah blinked slowly like she was falling asleep against her will. "If there was, Gollum probably killed him and took his clothes."

"Why would he take Nico's jacket and his swimsuit but not his shirt or pants?...Forget it; I don't want to know. You get some shut-eye, cuz. I'll wake you up in an hour."

"Thanks, Amy." She leaned back and started snoring. She snores really loud, just like George. I gritted my teeth and prayed the sound didn't alert anything to our whereabouts.

I eased the sword onto my lap. Its sheath was cold against my legs. Holding it at a certain angle I could see my eyes. I practiced my death stare for a while, scared that something would pop out of the shadows at us, but also wondering what we'd find at the Institute, and whether this was all a big nightmare, and whether Magnus thought I was pretty.

I didn't have a very good death stare. My eyes were too soft a blue, too big and trusting. They were actually the reason the girls and I had decided I should dress like Princess Ariel when we came up with The Simonettas' gimmick. No matter how thick I put on my eyeliner, I couldn't look intimidating.

I might be prettier than Sarah, but she was scarier-looking than me, and at the moment I kind of envied that.

I realized I knew why Gollum thought I smelled like vampire. The incident had happened years ago, so my aggressors must've left a strong scent. If they were vampires, then everything made sense.

That also meant I knew what must've happened to Jenny, which made me sniffle and my eyes water…

I glanced at my watch and prayed that the hour would go by quickly.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Don't worry, Nico fangirls, this will all be sorted out! Hang in there!

Gollum's line about forgetting the taste of bread, etc., is right out of _The Return of the King _the movie; I can't remember if it was in the book. The song lyrics quoted are from "Alice (Underground)" by Avril Lavigne, "Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up)" by Florence + the Machine, and the shout-out is to "Firework" by Katy Perry.

Thanks for reading, and please pray for the Aurora shooting victims and those close to them. ~GwF


	29. XXIV: It Comes with a Price

**AN: **Just heard about yet another horrific shooting spree—this one targeting a Sikh temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin. Please pray for the victims, and that all this senseless violence will cease.

* * *

><p>XXIV. It Comes with a Price.<p>

My surroundings looked exactly as they had before I fell asleep. Of course no sunlight could reach us, but I did wonder if we'd be able to tell time down here at all without my handy wristwatch.

Sarah sat alert by my side, running her hands down the length of the sword, like she was wondering if she had the nerve to use it for real. Gollum crouched nearby, messily devouring…something. I opened my mouth to ask what he was eating, but thought better of it.

"Good morning, Amy," Sarah said pleasantly. "When you've eaten, and Nico has finished his breakfast, we'll get started for that Institute." There were blackish circles around her eyes. I gathered she hadn't slept well either.

I yanked myself to a seated position, sore and filthy. "Do you remember the way, Nico?"

"Of course," he snorted through whatever it was he was eating. "Smico doesn't forget things like that."

_He'd better not, _I thought.

If I now said "I knew Gollum couldn't be trusted", all you wonderful readers will surely smite your foreheads and grumble "Thank you for pointing that out, Captain Obvious." So I won't say that.

But if we didn't follow Magnus' instructions and stick with Gollum, we'd probably never find the Institute.

And if we didn't find the Institute, then we were pretty much leaving Ron and Nudge to die in agony, and we couldn't let that happen.

So, back to square one. Back to Smico. All I could do now was pray that he wouldn't see fit to throttle us, and that if he did we could repel him successfully.

My stomach had been one huge knot for what felt like days. Usually I wouldn't eat feeling that way, knowing that I'd probably get sick. But I also knew that I'd need energy for today's adventure, so I grabbed a protein bar from my backpack and started munching absently.

"Sarah?" I whispered.

"Yes?"

"What's our plan?"

She turned. "Nico! Can you tell us what the building is like? What should we expect?"

He started hissing like a scared cat. His breakfast splattered all over his mouth and chin.

"Ssss…first, there's a big white room full of computerses. There weren't many nasty white-coatses there when we went through, but they might have upped the security since then; after the human birdses broke out. If someone's there, then you'll have to fight them. If not, you can proceed to the glass wall with the cageses. We thinks that's where they'd have your brother."

I shuddered. "Why would he be in a cage?"

Then I answered my own question. "Oh, dear God, no…"

"Yessss. They wouldn't let him get away. Tubeses! Tapeses!" He kept on ranting till his words devolved into unintelligible snarls punctuated with sprays of spittle and…uh, _breakfast_.

Sarah sheathed the sword. "Let's say we get in and the white room is unguarded. We find the glass wall and the cages. What next?"

"Nice legacy has to type the passsssword into the computer nearest the glass. Thissss will open the door."

"Great! What's the password?"

"Ssss, ssss!" He smote his forehead. "What _was_ the passssword? Think, precious, think! We can't have forgotten. Magnusss told us to remember. He said he wouldn't bring us to Taki's again unless we could remember."

"Taki's?" I asked.

"It's a nice restaurant. They lets Smico eat nice raw fisssh. The other restaurantses won't serve us nice raw fisssh. No precious. Salmonella poisoning, they says." He spat contemptuously. "Smico's been eating raw fisssh forever, and he's never been poisoned! Stupid nasty humans. They doesn't know anything—"

"Password," Sarah cut in.

"Ssss, we're thinking, we're thinking." Gollum cradled his head in his hands.

Awkward silence.

I finished my energy bar and stuffed the empty wrapper back in my knapsack.

"Have you eaten?" I asked Sarah.

She shook her head. "I have an extremely nervous stomach. If I ingested any food now, I'd upchuck all of it."

"But won't you just pass out after a while if you don't eat?"

"Actually, I have _more _energy when I'm hungry. I can always eat after the raid." She smiled at me reassuringly, but it didn't reach her eyes.

Of course she was speaking optimistically. No matter what we found there (assuming Gollum even brought us to the right place) we were just two adolescents with zero fighting skills. I did not like to think about our chances.

"MAX AND DYLAN!" Gollum suddenly screamed.

Panicked, we shushed him.

"Inside voice, Nico," I said through gritted teeth.

"That _was_ our inside voiceses," he sulked.

"Can you please repeat yourself quietly?" Sarah whispered.

"Max and Dylan. That's their password."

"Max and Dylan," Sarah and I muttered. I grabbed a flashlight from my backpack and we were on our way.

…**.**

The trek was slow and extremely nerve-wracking. Gollum loped ahead of us, occasionally rasping over his shoulder for us to keep up.

That was a hard order to follow. Soon my feet were sore. Sarah kept tripping on her shoelaces and falling on her face in the grime. There were no images on the walls or bumps in the floor—nothing I could use as a landmark. For all I knew, we were going in circles—

Pain struck me like a thunderclap. My stomach felt like it was about to explode.

I sank groaning to my knees, the pain too intense to walk through.

"Amy?" Sarah crouched next to me, eyebrows raised in alarm. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

"Ssss, ssss, why are they lagging behind?" asked Gollum from far ahead. "Mussst keep up if they wants—"

"Please don't leave us," she told him. "We're having a bit of a medical emergency."

Why did she look so tall? She has a good five inches on me, but at the moment I barely came up to her knee.

I tried to stand up, only to discover that I was _already _standing up.

The stomachache had vanished as suddenly and mysteriously as it had come.

"Sarah? What happened?" I asked.

It sounded like "ree, ree, ree."

I looked down.

My body had shrunk to the size of a small housecat and was covered in thick white fur. My feet—hind feet, to be exact—were long and built to jump. My hands—front feet—were velvety, and I had lost my thumbs. My ears felt long. I felt a pressure on my tailbone—because now I had a tail, fluffy as cotton.

I gave a little bunny shriek and blacked out.

_This is a gift_

_It comes with a price_

_Who is the lamb?_

_And who is the knife?_

_And Midas is king _

_And he holds me so tight_

_He turned me to gold in the sunlight…_

"It's a gift," Magnus had said, before stuffing the energy bars into my backpack.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Song lyrics taken once again from "Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up)" by Florence + the Machine. Awesome song, BTW.

While you're here, check out the _Redwall _fan fic _The Last Champion _by Varkanax40 (s/8146193/1/The_Last_Champion_The_Riddle_of_Arken_Book_I). Warmly recommended for pretty much anyone, no matter what you think of the _Redwall _series. This fic has twists by the truckload, heart-wrenching characters, brilliant action sequences, and a truly awesome villain.

On a sober note, please pray for the victims of the Oak Creek shooting and that a change will come.


	30. XXV: Breaking and Entering

**AN: **Since I wrote last there was another shooting, this one in Texas. Please pray for those victims, and also all the people in the path of Hurrican Isaac.

* * *

><p>XXV. Breaking and Entering.<p>

I made the rest of the journey in Sarah's backpack. The sounds of the zipper going up and down, of the straps as she shrugged them on, stung my long swaying ears. She crammed all the important stuff from my bag into hers. We agreed it was horrible to leave a nice pack like that in this godforsaken tunnel, but she couldn't be expected to carry all that, I was obviously out of commission, and I would die before handing over any more of my stuff to Gollum. It was bad enough that he had my iPod.

Sarah made sure that she was always behind Gollum, for fear that he'd yank me out of the backpack by my ears and eat me (he liked raw bunnies almost as much as he liked raw fish).

We travelled in the silent dark for a long time.

…**..**

Gollum pried a manhole cover aside and hopped down.

Sarah leaned over the hole. Raw sewer stench stabbed my sensitive bunny nose.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked.

"Yesss, yesss. We hates the smell too, but there's no other way."

She sighed resignedly, then climbed down after him.

We stood on a little crud-encrusted ledge. Far below a river of human waste sloshed by.

Did I tell you about the rats? They were mangy, with crud gnarled in their fur, and they had long, sharp yellow teeth. Some of them were bigger than me in rabbit form. Some might have been bigger than me in _human _form, but we don't need to talk about them. I don't want to scare you too much, and a lot of what follows is scary enough.

Sarah looked over her shoulder at me. "Stay calm, Amy. Nico says we're almost there."

"Ssss, yesss. We shall reach it soon."

…**..**

I will spare you from a long account of that dark, smelly journey. Just remembering it makes me sick.

I have a feeling it's pretty warm down there all the time, but the record heat aboveground probably made it worse. I could almost feel the crud-covered concrete starting to melt. Yellow rat eyes peered greedily as we passed by. The smell of sweat and sewage spun my stomach around like _Wheel of Fortune_; I wanted to barf, but the reflex just wasn't there. (I would learn later that rabbits are physically incapable of barfing).

Perhaps the worst part—for me, at least—were the sounds. I picked up on every click of a rat's claw on the concrete, on Sarah's every labored breath. I could hear the subtle squeaks and slaps of Gollum's bare feet ahead. I could hear the filth dripping off the walls. I could even hear the slow movement of the Crap River far below.

To top it all off, I was a rabbit—a small animal that couldn't talk. I didn't have sharp teeth or claws to protect myself. I didn't have wings to fly away.

I didn't even have opposable thumbs.

We were walking straight towards a place where helpless animals (and people) got their DNA heartlessly mixed and matched. A place where no life mattered.

I hoped I was hidden well in Sarah's backpack, because I didn't want to think about what would happen to me in the hands of those scientists.

…

"Ssss, ssss! Look, legacy! Here it is! We found it, yes we did!"

Nearly invisible in the slimy darkness was the outline of a door on the wall.

I heard Sarah suck in her teeth as she reached out to touch the sludgy knob.

The door came open, which surprised me. It yawned into blackness and more stifling heat.

"Didn't you tell us there was a password?" Sarah asked Gollum.

"There are two doorses. First this one, then some stairses, then the other one. The password is for the second door."

"The password is 'Max and Dylan,' correct?"

"Yesss."

"Well, Nico, you've fulfilled your end of the bargain. I don't expect you to go any further. So," she ended with false cheerfulness, "Amy and I will just go in and rescue my brother and his friend. If you want you can wait here. We'll be out in no more than two hours, and then we'll help you find the half-bloods. Sound like a deal?"

"Will it take us to Taki's?"

She sighed. "If you really want to go to Taki's, the nice legacy will take you to Taki's."

"Ssss! Raw fissssh!" he chortled. "We'll remember that. We will wait." There was something sinister about the way he said that last part.

"Great. It was a pleasure doing business with you."

As we climbed down the stairs, she shuddered so hard the backpack shook.

…**.**

I lost count of the steps, but there were a lot of them. Or maybe that was just my fear slowing time. Eventually Sarah tripped, and we skidded down the rest of the way.

We stopped moving with an ominous thump at what must have been the bottom of the stairs.

I took this opportunity to hop out of Sarah's backpack and relieve myself somewhere in the shadows where she couldn't see me.

I smelled my own little pellets, and—the worst part yet of this hellish day—I wanted to _eat _them. _C'mon, Amy, _they seemed to tell me. _Just one more time through. We're not fully digested. _

_ No! _I yelled mentally. _Soon enough I probably will be desperate enough to eat my own turds. But NOT THIS DAY!_

I hopped back into Sarah's pack. She was groaning faintly, her face still planted on the filthy floor. When she felt me settle on her back she pulled herself up.

A bare lightbulb glowed faintly on the low ceiling: just enough for me to see the mud caked on my paws, and the blood and dirt covering Sarah's face, and—the second door.

For a few minutes she just stood there staring at it. She crossed herself, and started praying in a murmur so low even my ultra-perceptive bunny ears couldn't make out the words.

"Amen," she finished. She looked over her shoulder at me. "I'm so sorry, Amy. We should have thrown Bane's food out right away. I promise, if we both come out of here alive, I will find a way to restore your true form."

I raised and lowered one ear to show her I appreciated that. She smiled through the oozing cut on her lower lip, so I think she understood.

This door was covered in dust, not in sewer grime. Not being covered in sewer grime seemed like a nicety at the moment.

Sarah wiped away the dust to find what appeared to be a keyboard carved into the steel.

Above, a small dull orange rectangle blinked out the text: _SUBMIT PASSWORD TO ENTER._

She gulped. She punched in _maxanddylan._

_ PASSWORD IS NOT VALID. YOU HAVE ONE CHANCE TO TRY AGAIN._

_ Just one? _I thought. _They always get three chances in the movies._

"Help me, Lord!" she whispered. She punched in _Max and Dylan._

The door peeled open.

…**..**

The whiteness was so blinding, I wondered if we'd died and were zooming into the light.

In a few minutes my eyes adjusted the brightness of this room enough that I could see pretty clearly, but after so many hours in the dark it stung enough to make me weep.

The room was just like Gollum had described it: full of computer banks as far as the eye could see. Whiteboards covered in equations and sketches hung on the walls.

We'd come out of the sewers, but this place smelled almost as bad. At least it did to me. I don't know if Sarah could smell anything beneath the mile-thick layer of antiseptic, but I sure could. One sniff in the air carried the odors of blood, urine, feces, vomit, unwashed bodies (fleshy, furry, feathered and scaled), and carrion. Dead stuff. Lots of it.

Maybe Sarah could smell all that too, or maybe she hadn't quite recovered from the last part of the journey. She took off the backpack and set it gently on the floor. Then she lurched to the nearest trash bin and barfed.

The stench streamed from the end of the room across from us. I saw an aisle between computer banks and hopped down it. When Sarah was finished upchucking, she stuck our sword into her belt and followed me.

I came to a stop at a glass wall just like the one described by Gollum. I was too close to the ground to see much, so Sarah picked me up.

Behind the glass were cages and cages and cages full of…what can only be described as freaks of nature. But they weren't freaks of nature, they were freaks of science. Itex had created these monstrosities. Some were dead and hadn't yet been taken away.

Even describing those poor creatures makes me cry.

I saw fish people, elephant people, and a kid with his vital organs outside his body. There was a bloated humanoid with the head of a hammerhead shark.

There was a girl who couldn't be much older than me. She had a perfectly normal, human-looking body, but her head was that of an eagle and her skin was covered in feathers.

Not all of them were grotesque, though. Some looked completely human. Some were beautiful.

I scanned the crowd of them for any that resembled Ron, and I know Sarah was doing the same.

My eyes rested on a shock of wild red hair, but when that person sensed us staring at him he raised his head, showing he wasn't the one we were looking for. For starters, he was far too attractive to be Ron. He looked about Sarah's age, and he had bright yellow-green cat eyes with no whites, like Magnus Bane. His ginger hair was streaked with black. He smiled weakly, showing fangs, then resumed staring at the gorilla-like creature in the cage beneath him.

So where could Ron be? Was he prisoner in another room?

Most of the mutants stared sadly into the distance or at the floor…except for one who was staring straight at us.

He looked entirely human, except for the huge black wings, cramped in the tiny cage. His shaggy hair and tattered clothes were black, his skin olive. He sat with his wiry-muscled arms around his knees. He had the face of one of those beautiful Greek statues, and his big, beautiful black eyes were fixed on Sarah, as if he was trying to remember where he'd seen her before.

She recognized him, all right. Her brows furrowed and something about her hardened.

I would have face-palmed if I still had a palm. I was like _Sarah you idiot! I told you all along! Fang's on our side! He wants to help you!_

She set me gently on a computer bank. This computer had been left on. She minimized the chart that the last user had been working on, entered PowerPoint, and began typing furiously.

If she was letting her stupid grudge against Fang get in the way of saving the world, I was going to bite her.

She hit a button and the screen went black.

Then words in huge gold type flashed: _WHERE. IS. MY. BROTHER?_

Fang's eyes widened, like he'd just realized that this filthy, scary individual of uncertain gender and the cute girl he'd met back in January were indeed one and the same.

He shook his head sadly. I read the movement of his lips: "I wish I could tell you."

I hoped Sarah remembered that the password would also open the glass door. We could set all the mutants free and storm the building.

Then I realized that she had no intention of freeing them. She just wanted her brother back. She hated the mutants—she hated them, and Percy Jackson, and the guys on the beach, and Magnus, and everyone in the paranormal world. I didn't like them either, but it went deeper with her. She thought they were evil. She didn't care if they destroyed each other. She wouldn't lift a finger to help them.

I wanted to beat her up for being so selfish. I wanted to open that glass door myself.

But I could do nothing of the kind, because I was a bunny.

I channeled all my frustration into a crazed, ear-stabbing screech.

…

This was probably the stupidest thing I could've done, because it brought someone running.

The woman looked about forty. She had frizzy hair, and I could smell coffee on her breath from twenty feet away.

She looked first at me, probably assuming I was a loosed experiment, then at Sarah. She studied my cousin and her expression changed from annoyed to terrified.

"You've come about the Blackwoods, haven't you," she hissed. "I knew Patrick and Rebekah had children. I knew this would happen."

"How? Did a certain humanoid calling himself Smico di Angelo warn you?" Sarah rose from the computer and strode toward the woman. She towered over her, and her eyes were narrowed, menacing. "Or was it a certain bird boy who _writes a blog_ detailing his every thought?"

Before the woman could react, Sarah reached out and struck her lightly on the side of her neck. The woman passed out and crumpled to the squeaky floor.

"A little martial arts move that my dad taught me," Sarah informed me. She took the woman's white lab coat and slung it on. It wasn't likely to fool anyone, but at this point we were desperate, and desperate people do stupid things.

"Come with me, Amy," she panted. "Let's see if you can sniff out Ron's trail."

We ran out of the white room, towards a dark corridor that branched out in many directions.

I sniffed the air.

I could recognize Sarah's smell now, though it was hidden under layers of sewer stink. Since she and Ron were siblings, they had nearly the exact same scent. But I could tell them apart. I could pick up traces of him on the stuff in our backpacks. Like all males, his scent was a grade or two fouler than hers on the best of days.

The antiseptic/rot smell of the first room gave way. These scents were human, lots of different humans. Fainter came the odor of bird. I guessed not many mutants came this way. I also caught cobwebs, old books, and metal—like armor and weaponry.

But I couldn't smell Ron at all.

It must be as Sarah and I had feared last night.

We'd walked into a trap.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>I did some research on bunnies for this paper. It is true that they cannot vomit, and they also *ahem* eat some of their food twice, because they have a cellulose-rich diet which is hard to digest.

The part where Amy yells "BUT NOT THIS DAY!" is a shout-out to _The Lord of the Rings. _Or _Miracle on Ice._

Sorry that was such a long chapter! It's great to be writing again! Please review!


	31. XXVI: The Meaning of Oberon

**AN: **Hang in there, folks! In the next chapter there will be finally be a full-fledged fight sequence!

* * *

><p>XXVI. The Meaning of Oberon.<p>

There was no point in running anymore.

I sat on my haunches, sniffing the air indifferently.

Sarah went about ten feet before she realized she was alone. "C'mon, Amy."

When I still didn't move, she turned around and knelt next to me, eyes full of worry. "Amy, are you ok?"

It was nice to know she cared about me. Ron was lucky to have such a loyal sister.

But that did not make her a good person. She couldn't make herself free the mutants. She couldn't swallow her stupid pride. It wasn't like Fang had done anything to deserve her hatred, either. You'd almost get the impression he _liked _her!

"Amy, do you need me to carry you?"

I bit her hand.

She pulled away, wiping a trickle of blood off her palm. I was surprised that I'd broken the skin. It made me feel like I had power over something. A savage rage was building inside me.

_This is all your fault, Blackwood! _

As she stood, I noticed how bad she looked. The color had left her skin. Her freckles looked ready to fly off her face and stab something. Sweat was pouring off her in sheets—probably from both heat and nervousness.

"I know this is a suicide mission, but since we're all going to die shortly anyway, that matters little. I'm sorry that I couldn't prevent what happened to you, Amy. I'm sorry for everything." Her voice shook. "I'm going to look for my brother now. Assuming we come back alive, we'll find you, and then…"

_And then nothing, because the cosmos will no longer exist._

I started tapping a hind foot impatiently on the carpet.

She resumed running. She didn't look back.

…**..**

After a few minutes of gloating and plotting exactly how I was gonna kill Magnus Bane for turning me into a rabbit, I realized something:

By driving Sarah away, I had pretty much nailed my own coffin shut and thrown it to the bottom of the sea.

I was a little defenseless bunny alone in a big scary laboratory where they destroyed cute animals for kicks.

I had about two seconds to get my fluffy tail in gear before somebody came along and wondered _hmm, what if I gave this innocent little creature mosquito eyes and a wolf's digestive system?_

But get in gear for what?

Hearing human footsteps behind me, I started hopping down one of the side corridors. They seemed empty.

All my sweet, sweet revenge fantasies crumbled.

With my luck, I would _survive _the Apocalypse as a bunny, living off radioactive garden vegetables in the remnants of farms until my system couldn't take it anymore.

…

Then an irresistible smell floated by me, and my rabbit heart would not leave me alone until I went to investigate.

This smell was not irresistible because it was pleasant, mind you. It reminded me strongly of both Sarah and Ron, but belonged to neither of them. I also discerned an unusually stinky human (probably a prepubescent boy), lots of old humans, and a bird…a Bird Kid.

What could have brought all those smells together?

I followed it down a second deserted corridor.

…

My nose led me to a room with a big rectangular table. At the head of the table slumped a snoring old man wrapped in a purple cloak. I guessed he had fallen asleep reading something from the manila folder that lay open in front of him.

Cautiously I hopped onto an empty chair and then on to the table. I landed silently on my furry feet. The old man did not wake up.

The smell that had led me into this room was streaming from the folder, so what was in it? I might be a rabbit, but I could still read. I hopped daringly close to the geezer to have a look at the papers. His breath stank of tobacco.

The page further from me was a lot of scientific writing that I couldn't understand.

The page closest to me had a photograph of a boy on it. He looked about twelve years old and quite petite. His clothes looked like they'd been stolen from a dumpster. He had copper skin and stringy ash-blond hair.

Also, he was a mutant—he had monarch butterfly wings three times his size sprouting from his back.

But what struck me were his eyes—big, slanted, dark, and piercing. They weren't exactly pretty, but they stuck out. Probably because I recognized them.

Those were Ron's eyes. They were Sarah's eyes.

The photo looked at least twelve years old; it was kinda worn, and clearly taken on one of those disposable cameras that used to be popular before everyone had digital cameras. Under it were written the following words. I figured out eventually that they had been written by Rebekah, Sarah and Ron's mom:

_IN MEMORIAM: ROBERT THOMAS WATERS, called OBERON _

_ "Ron" was the son of my sister Jessica, as I learned after analyzing a sample of his mtDNA. The man who provided the other half of his genetic material is Jeb Batchelder, my former friend and colleague. _

_ I first became aware of Oberon two years ago, when Patrick and I were admitted into the Recombinant Life Forms Design and Maintenance Team._

_ By then we had been converted against the evil ways of our organization, but we understood that we would do the most good working against them from the inside. _

_ After obtaining permission from Dr. Gunther-Hagen to "experiment" I trained the boy in reading, writing and math. He showed greater affinity for these than most human children I know. He also understood the literature and art I showed him on a deep emotional level, perhaps because of the suffering he endured. _

_ My husband and I gained permission (after a lot of bribery on Patrick's part) to take Oberon out of the laboratory on short day trips, to see how he adapted to an open environment. In secluded, wild places we let him stretch his wings and fly, though it was expressly against orders. _

_ He bore a strong resemblance to my mother, having the same eyes and facial shape as my own children. When I sampled some of his mitochondria, my suspicions were proven correct. His father was Batchelder, who contributed to many of the human experimental creatures. His mother was Jess, my sister._

_ Apparently there was corruption at the clinic where she had given eggs, hoping a barren woman might be able to use them. Someone had given her eggs to Itex._

_ Horrified, Patrick and I reexamined the words of the contract we had signed upon joining the company: _"We the undersigned acknowledge that Itex may give or take anything deemed necessary from us, our families, friends, co-workers, etc. All personal rights can and will be sacrificed for the furthering of scientific research and the preservation of the company. Breach of contract will result in expulsion."

_ We had known full well the dreadful import of those words when we signed that piece of paper. But now the scales had fallen from our eyes (metaphorically speaking). Now it became imperative to expose this evil as soon as possible, however we might be punished for the role we once played in it. _

_ In secret I told all this to Jess, who was understandably furious with me, but eager to rescue her son._

_ A week after my talk with her we took Oberon on one of his "day trips". He never returned to the Institute._

_ We flew nonstop to LAX, where we were met by my sister._

[Here she included a photo of Oberon, his wings concealed under a sweater, hugging a woman I assumed was Jessica Waters. She looked just like the picture I'd seen of Rebekah, only much curvier, and her clothes suggested she was into motorcycling].

_We drove him back to our house by the long road. We lived in Mica then—Mom, Patrick, Peter, Anna, Sarah, the cats, and I, in the house where Jess, Ritchie and I grew up. _

_ Oberon was spellbound for the whole ride. He told us that he'd never imagined a place could be as beautiful as rural Arizona. _

_ For a short time we were happy, but…_

…**.**

The sleeping old man had his hand drooped across the rest.

I wanted to know what became of Oberon, but I knew that it couldn't have ended well. I wondered who Peter and Anna were. More smuggled mutants? Or did Sarah have older siblings? The writing was at least thirteen years old, because Ron apparently hadn't yet been born.

So that was how he got that crazy name. Oberon was his cousin, his _mutant _cousin who had lived and died a nightmare.

_If only Sarah were here, _I thought. _Maybe if she could read this, she'd change her mind about the mutants. I know she'd want to make her parents happy._

The pattern of the old guy's snores changed. I hopped off the table and behind an urn before he could see me. I prayed no one could spot the tips of my ears.

Sure enough, he did wake up.

"Silverstein!" he yelled in a clipped British accent.

A woman in a white coat with glasses came running. "Dr. Merlynthwarte, sir?"

_Merlynthwarte. _That name made some part of me cold.

"Get the committee in here. They should have come an hour ago. I fell asleep waiting for them. Make haste!"

"Yessir," Silverstein gulped, and sped back the way she'd come.

Dr. Merlynthwarte glanced down at the Blackwood document. He didn't look like a kindly old gent. His white hair was wild around his head, his features harsh, and his eyes were purple. You'd think purple eyes would be pretty, but they just made this guy look even more deranged and evil, like maybe they'd gotten that way because of an experiment gone wrong.

Eventually some other white-coats came in, closing the door behind them. They were all between the ages of forty and seventy, I'd guess, though Merlynthwarte was probably older. Some were speaking in a language I guessed from their appearance was Chinese.

I will not bore you with their whole conversation. A lot of it made no sense to me, so I can't remember it. The only thing that stuck out to me was how everyone called Merlynthwarte "Mr. Chairman" like this was some sort of commune* meeting

Suddenly, while one of the old farts was droning about hiring a better janitor, a girl—a mutant girl—burst in.

She was built like a runway model, super tall, thin but curvy. Her skin was snowy white, her long hair pure black with purple streaks. She wore an expensive-looking purple tank top and short shorts. She also had giant wings—raven wings.

She tapped Merlynthwarte's shoulder. "Daddy?"

"Can't you see we're busy, Keira?" he snapped.

"This is more important, Daddy. I hear Cleo yowling somewhere on this floor. Can you guys adjourn the council and look for her?"

"Keira, look for your own bloody cat. We're discussing very important things right now."

"But _Daddy,_"she whined "—wait. Have you talked about Fang's papers yet?"

"We're getting to it," he sighed.

"I want to hear about Fang's papers."

"Then sit down and be quiet."

Keira pulled up an empty chair. Her face was beautiful—the same kind of cold ebon-and-ivory beauty as the girl who Ron was following around that day on the beach. She looked nothing like the man she called "Daddy" except for her eyes, which were more purple and creepier than his.

Merlynthwarte coughed. "My daughter brings us to an important subject." He held up the folder. I saw it was labeled "Blackwood" in blue marker.

One of the men almost jumped out of his seat. "Those papers were destroyed," he squeaked. "I know they were. They burned with McNamara."

Merlynthwarte rolled his eyes. "They did not burn with McNamara, obviously. They are literally in my hands right now. Why, Martel? Because you stupidly decided to snuff Bevacqua, Williams and McNamara _separately_, instead of simply bombing their office. McNamara might have been on to something—upon receiving the documents, he _left them in a secret compartment in his desk _instead of taking them home.

"Also, your little series of firebombs was not nearly as effective as first believed. Bill McNamara had a son, a little whelp about eleven years old, named Calvin. The boy came across this folder while helping clean out his father's office and, understanding it to be valuable, took off across country with it. Missing Child posters of him can found as far as Los Angeles. Where was he going? I don't know. He's been interrogated for two days now, but we can't get anything out of him except tirades about extraterrestrials.

"Apparently Calvin met one of our rogue creations on his journey. You probably remember this one. He's the raven-winged upstart who challenged Dylan for the hand of fair Maximum."

"He has a name, Daddy," cut in Keira. "He's Fang. He's a person." (I was starting to think she had a crush on Fang—who wouldn't?).

"Yes, yes," he returned disinterestedly. "_Fang_ seized the documents from Calvin and flew to New York as fast as his wings could take him. Here is where it gets even more interesting." He paused dramatically, drumming his fingers on the table.

"The lad would not give me any information while I was interrogating him, but there was no need. He very kindly keeps a blog that lets everyone with internet access track his every move." Merlynthwarte chuckled, a sound so awful it literally hurt my sensitive bunny ears. "His plan was to hand over the documents to a girl…which sounds like typical lovestruck teenage folly until we find out the girl in question is named Sarah _Blackwood, _she is an orphan, and she moved here from Arizona after her parents perished in January."

Martel gaped like a fish at the bottom of the boat, which was probably exactly how he felt.

"That's right, Martel," Merlynthwarte smirked. "You were told to wipe the Blackwood family from the face of the Earth, and you only killed two out of four. There's a son, too, and his name is Oberon. Coincidence? I think not." He pulled some photos out of a separate pocket and passed them around the room. "A spy informed me on July fourth that these two and some friends were spotted at the Harbor talking with Perseus Jackson and another demigod. These photographs were taken the night before last and show Oberon conversing with the ruffian Jace Wayland, whom we know to be a Nephilim. You all do see what this means, I trust?"

A distinctive cat yowl streamed from some room several corridors down. Keira shot out of her chair and ran toward the sound.

"Conspiracy," muttered Silverstein.

"Exactly!" cried the Chairman. "Conspiracy! The next generation of McNamaras and Blackwoods are out for revenge, so much that they have called upon the Angel-Blooded and the Heroes of Olympus! We planned to survive this war, to live on through Maximum and Dylan, but now even they are threatened. These devious kids and their new friends will not leave a stone of this institution standing."

"But Mr. Chairman," ventured another woman, "I thought Fang was in love with Max. I don't think he'd do anything to jeopardize her future."

This statement made most of them laugh.

"'In love'?" Merlynthwarte repeated, incredulous. "As if they have feelings! Fang did indeed fancy Max as a mate, but who knows what his new allies have convinced him to do? Besides, you forget he has a new girlfriend now; Patrick and Rebekah's daughter. With _her_ at his side—"

"With all due respect, Mr. Chairman, I don't think she _is_ at his side, nor has she ever been. I've looked through millions of kids who read his blog, and she hasn't looked at it once. I don't think we need to worry about her or her brother. Also, we should release poor Calvin McNamara immediately. Our organization was supposed to be the preservation of high science. Have we really sunk so low as torturing eleven-year-olds?"

There were a few sparse murmurs of agreement.

"Sit down, Gupta," the Chairman hissed. "That's borderline treason, what you just said."

At this moment Keira stomped back into the room. At her heels was a gorgeous black cat whose eyes changed colors. Keira was dragging someone who looked human along with their face shoved into her armpit. All I could tell about the person was that they were really skinny and dirty. In a few seconds I should pick up a scent.

"I found this intruder trying to break into the Recombinant Storage Room," said the cat in a horribly silky, inhuman voice.

Keira let the person out of the headlock and she/he dropped hard to the floor. The winged girl had apparently struggled with her captive; the skin around her left eye was turning the same purple-black color as her hair.

I recognized the person's scent now. When the figure pulled itself to its knees and barfed into the urn in front of me, I was not surprised to see Sarah's face. She dared a smile when she recognized me before standing up to face our enemies.

"Looks just like Reb," one of the women whispered.

"Really? I think she looks more like Pat," returned the one next to her.

Merlynthwarte laughed. "Why, it's young Sarah Blackwood, come to avenge her parents! Sit down, kid. You'll answer a few questions, then you and your friend Calvin will learn the meaning of torment."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Sorry for the length of that chapter! However, I needed to get all the talking and exposition out of the way so there can be a good action sequence in the next chapter.

*When Amy said, "commune meeting" she meant "Communist meeting." You've probably surmised by now that she doesn't get very good grades in social studies.

Calvin's last name is never given in _Calvin & Hobbes; _nor are the first names of his parents. I thought McNamara sounded good as a surname, and I called his dad Bill after _C&H _creator Bill Watterson.

Keira, Merlynthwarte, Cleo the talking cat, and most of the scientists are OCs. The villains of _Maximum Ride _are kind of nebulous, so I made up Dr. Merlynthwarte to be an unambiguous bad guy. Oberon and Jessica Waters are also original characters.

Please review! And while you're here, do you mind reviewing my _Chronicles of Narnia _story _End of an Era _( s/7968795/1/End-of-an-Era-The-Caspianic-Wars-Book-One)? There's something amiss in it but I can't figure out what…here's three virtual cookies for Louisa4533, who already reviewed it (::) (::) (::)


	32. XXVII: Going Under

**AN: **I'd like to thank all my reviewers, followers and favoriters so far: cat cruz 97 (first reviewer), Pyg'm, The Fading Author, twitchip, Varkanax 40, Mythomagic-Champion, girlreadsalot, catz r the all time best, Werewolf not a golden retriever, Louisa4533, WeasleyIsOurKing2, MIgirl923, xBlownxAwayx, Esperanza911, FortissimoTrumpeter, BookLoverTillTheEndXxXx, lycos anthropos (hundredth reviewer), sapphireshadow97, Kaitie85386, Dyingrot, jujubug12, Max and the Halfblood Princess, sailormoon2398, heartBOOKS, heartpercabeth, ilovemybunnyrabbit, and zeropbreakthru. Here's a nice big batch of virtual cookies for y'all:

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This chapter is named after the song "Going Under" by Evanescence. Not only does it fit the mood, it is even plot-relevant.

* * *

><p>XXVII. Going Under.<p>

Keira shoved Sarah into an empty chair.

_She was trying to free the mutants all along! _I thought. _I guess I misjudged her. _

What she'd done to Fang in the white room was still mean, but if it had been Jenny instead of Ron, I probably would have done the same thing. My cousin and I were friends again.

"Please talk, Blackwood," cackled Dr. Merlynthwarte.

She was deliberately silent.

"Listen, kid," said Martel, "tell us what you're doing here and maybe—_maybe_—we won't have to kill you."

Still no response.

The cat, Cleo, started sniffing the floor.

My heart dropped into my stomach. _Please, God, don't let her find me._

"Your name is Sarah, isn't it?" said a man who hadn't spoken before. He had soft blue eyes and his voice oozed niceness, which meant he might in fact be the evilest person in the room (an impressive feat). "You can trust me. I was close friends with your mom and dad, and you remind me a lot of them both. In some ways you also remind me of my daughter, Max. Please tell us why you came."

My cousin ignored him. He reached out to her but she swatted his hand away. Her eyes were closed, her face expressionless.

"When will you learn, Batchelder?" snickered Silverstein. "Kids can see right through you."

"Young lady—if you are indeed a young _lady, _which I doubt—if you're not going to talk willingly we have our ways of extracting information," sneered a woman who I hadn't heard before.

My cousin still said nothing.

Keira sat in the empty chair between Sarah and her father. "I can't believe you're dating Fang. You are waaaaaay too ugly to deserve him."

Sarah broke her silence, fixing the winged girl with a death stare. "I am NOT dating Fang. I am not even corresponding with Fang. In fact, I despise Fang. You are fools indeed if you think I did all this to try and rescue _him_."

"Ha! She's Patrick's daughter, all right!" Merlynthwarte clapped with glee, as if this whole scene were a circus skit. "Always betray your helpers when they get the axe! A true Machiavellian. We guessed you had deeper motives. Tell us what they are."

Cleo took this opportune moment to catch my scent and spring at me.

Sarah fell hard out of her chair.

The cat leapt over the urn I was cowering behind, her eyes swirling rainbows.

I realized those eyes would be the last things I'd ever see.

Just when I'd given up Sarah stood, scooped Cleo off the floor and flung her at Merlynthwarte's head. He let out a slew of curses as the worked-up mutant kitty clawed him. She hurled every word right back.

The white coats all surged at my cousin at once, but she picked up her chair and clobbered several of them with it. The rest were busy either trying to disengage the tantruming Cleo from the Chairman's face, or tearing out of the room calling for reinforcements.

Only Keira was still a threat. "I am going to gut you like a fish-slug hybrid!" she screamed, wings flapping ominously. "And my cat will eat your bunny."

"Fang likes me better than you," Sarah replied with a smirk.

Keira's pretty face fell. She sank to her knees and wept.

As we scrambled out of the room, Sarah reached under Cleo's thrashing hind legs to grab her parents' folder.

"That was a bit too easy," she muttered.

…**.**

By now alarms all over the building were going off, and more white-coats were pouring out of different rooms. Sarah had shed her own "borrowed" white coat a while ago, so it was obvious she was the threat.

Some of these people had guns. Big guns—the kind that probably shouldn't be legal even for the military to use. The air was punctured by the sounds of gunfire. Sometimes the bullets grazed us. It's a miracle none of them hit home.

Finally we came to a staircase. Sarah folded herself into a ball and rolled down the steps so she would be below range. The folder was in her backpack, but I wasn't, for which I was grateful.

…**..**

At the bottom of the stairs was a big glass door that looked out on the street. Sarah and I picked ourselves up and ran towards it with whatever energy we had left. Bullets followed us, but they pinged off the strong glass.

We charged down the sidewalk, trying to put as much distance between us and the Institute as possible.

…**..**

"We should never have gone in there like that," Sarah panted. "We should have sought an ally…a real ally, not Gollum. I don't know who that would be, but they must be somewhere in this city. I know I need to go back, look for Ron, free Calvin and whatever mutants are on our side, but I was an idiot for thinking I could do it alone."

We'd made it to the Williamsburg Bridge. Although we knew we were most likely being pursued, we had to stop. I was exhausted, even though I rode halfway in Sarah's backpack, and she was covered in bruises, cuts and other wounds. We also had no idea where exactly we were going, and the Bridge was a good landmark to chart a course from.

I climbed out of the backpack to sit on the sidewalk and look around.

The sun was setting. The sky was fiery magenta, its reflection blazing off the East River.

Cars idled on the bridge. I wished everyone would wake up. I wished things could go back to normal.

Sarah pulled herself to her feet. We started walking again—until she tripped over her shoelace and face-planted on the concrete.

"I'm not sure how much farther I can go, Amy," she mumbled.

"You're not going anywhere, punk," said a grouchy old man with an English accent.

A female white-coat picked me up, though I bit and kicked her. Two more scientists grabbed Sarah's arms and yanked her to a standing position facing the Chairman.

Merlynthwarte was laughing so hard I thought he might give himself a heart attack.

"What shall I do with you, Blackwood runt? Would you like to join your friend McNamara in the interrogation cell? Or perhaps Fang would like one last glimpse of your fair countenance before I snuff him?" He snorted. "My but if you aren't the ugliest child I ever saw…"

"But Fang is MY boyfriend, Daddy!" pouted Keira, who was just flying in to join the party. "Or he will be soon! You can't kill him, and you can't force him to look at this hideous creature."

"I don't want any of these things, sir," Sarah replied, her words slurred by the oozing cut on her lower lip. "My rabbit friend and I just want to go our way unharmed. We're not conspiring against you guys, honest."

"Honest?" the Chairman chortled. "Honest? Remember who your parents were, kid. You shouldn't use that word. Where are the documents?"

"Floating down the East River."

"She's lying. Search her backpack."

Keira darted behind Sarah, yanked on her backpack—and pulled her by it over the edge of the bridge, just to be mean.

"Well done, daughter," Merlynthwarte observed. "Good to see you take initiative for once."

My cousin dangled from her backpack straps one hundred and thirty-five feet in the air.

"Give me the documents and I'll let you live," snarled the mutant girl, treading air with her great wings.

Sarah shuddered. "Why should I believe you?"

Keira held her with one hand and started raining blows on her with the other.

"Run, Amy!" Sarah cried, fixing her eyes on me.

With that she reached up and swung at Keira, punching her hard in the jaw.

The winged girl screamed and involuntarily let go.

Sarah and her backpack hurtled toward the East River.

Keira zoomed down in pursuit. The two girls exchanged blows as they plummeted.

The water swallowed my cousin without shattering her. Keira followed her to the surface but forgot to retract her wings, so instead of diving after her adversary rocketed back up to us, flapping droplets off her feathers and cursing at her failure.

Sarah got her head above water for about three seconds, before the river dragged her down again, and it was as though she had never been.

…**.**

"So what do we do with _this_?" asked Silverstein back at the Institute, holding me aloft by my ears. The pain made my eyes water. My hind legs kicked the air.

"I'd like to test out my new smallpox on it," Martel suggested.

_Please God, no smallpox!_

Keira barged in. 'Give me that bunny! I'm going to feed it to Cleo. She deserves a treat after all she's been through today, poor baby."

_Please God, let them give me smallpox instead._

…

"Psst!"

The voice came from the mass of cages full of mutants. Keira stopped, dropping me hard to the squeaky linoleum floor. I landed on my four feet. Impact stung.

"Psst! Keira!" The voice was human; a young male human. A very nice, soft, gentle voice it was, too.

"Yes?" Keira replied. She could sound sweet and innocent when she needed to. "Who is this?"

"Fang."

She started giggling. "Hi, Fang."

"Keira, this is urgent. Bring me the bunny rabbit."

"What bunny rabbit?"

"The one you were just carrying."

"But I was going to give it to Cleo…"

"There are plenty of other bunnies you can give to Cleo." He didn't sound like he enjoyed saying that. "But the one you have there is a special little friend of mine. If you kill her, I will hate you for the rest of eternity."

"Ooh, I wouldn't want that!" She punched the password into a nearby computer and the glass door peeled open.

Keira strode purposefully down the aisle between the cages, ignoring the stench and the monstrous failed experiments. I've already told you how that place looked and smelled. I won't make you sick by repeating it.

Keira stopped at Fang's cage, twisted it open, and handed me up to him. She shivered and smiled like an imbecile when his hands touched hers.

"Thank you, Keira. That was a kind thing to do."

"No problem." She started walking back out of the room, saying over her shoulder. "Fang, if you need anything just let me know. There is nothing I won't do for you."

"Thanks again. I'll remember that."

Keira left, closing the glass door behind her.

"Whew!" exclaimed the red-haired boy I'd noticed earlier. "She's so much in love, she's actually thinking about someone besides herself! Stop the presses!"

"Knock it off, Hobbes," Fang grumbled. He resumed staring into space.

Night had fallen hours ago. Gupta switched off our lights on her way out, and we were in darkness.

…**.**

Fang twitched a lot in his sleep. His head craned back and his perfect lips were parted. Sometimes he talked, enough to let me know that his dreams were troubled.

I lay curled up under the tips of his folded wings.

I couldn't force my eyes shut. I just stared out into the dark at the shapes of nightmares.

I was a rabbit. I couldn't talk, hold a sword, or turn a doorknob. I would probably never be human again.

_Why did you do this, Magnus? What did I ever do to you? I hope you pay big for this. _

Sarah and I had failed epically in our quest to rescue Ron. Where was he now? If he was ok, he wouldn't be for long.

Sarah was dead.

I hoped she was happy right now—with her parents, and her cousin Oberon. Maybe she'd even met my dad and my little sister Jenny…assuming Jenny _had_ died…

If I were noble, it would probably have made me feel a little better that those documents were at the bottom of the East River, no longer in the hands of Itex.

But I'm not noble, and that did not make me feel better at all.

How long did any of us have left?

I gave Fang a bunny kiss. I was so distraught that I didn't even realize how I would have loved to give him a human kiss. _Thank you for saving me. Sleep well. I have a feeling tomorrow will be even worse than today._

Then, at last, I slept.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Shall I continue?


	33. Interlude: Fang again

**Special Edition Author's Note**

_Isabelle:_ GwF, it was rude of you to kill Sarah off before I could help her discover her inner fashionista.

_GwF:_ Somehow I think she's ok with that. Maybe now would be a good time to clarify that Keira (and her cat, Cleo) are deliberate Sues—Villain Sues, to be precise. Hope you hate them!

* * *

><p>INTERLUDE<p>

"Fang, wake up. You're having another nightmare."

The girl's whisper woke him. Fang flailed his long limbs as he returned to consciousness.

She stood outside his cage, barely visible in the washed-out moonlight. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and who she was. She was tall, too dark-haired to be Max, too feminine and beautiful to be Sarah.

_This is Keira, Merlynthwarte's mutant daughter. The one who's in love with me. _(Since the vast majority of girls in Fang's acquaintance were in varied degrees of love with him, and he knew it, this didn't mean much).

"What are you doing here?" he hissed.

"Keeping watch on you."

"Why?"

She shivered and drew closer, till her full lips were nearly between the cage bars. "My father and his friends want to exterminate you. I'm not going to let that happen."

"Um, thanks." He'd been here long enough to know that Keira was a megalomaniac almost as bad as her father. _She must have ulterior motives for keeping me alive. _

"I have the key to your cage," she continued in a voice like a moonlit breeze. "Would you like to fly outside with me?"

He studied her. She was probably a great fighter; most mutants came preprogrammed with martial art skills that would make Chuck Norris himself jealous. But Fang was taller, and while she was willowy, he was all wiry muscle. If need be he could take her on.

His perfect features creased in a smirk. _I just had a brilliant idea._

…**..**

He watched over Keira's shoulder as she punched the password into the pad on the cage side of the glass. _Max and Dylan. Of all the phrases they could use. _

She turned her head coyly to look at him. "You ok, Fang? You're grimacing."

"Just a little pain in my shoulder where they sedated me," he lied.

Quiet as shadows they crept down the dark corridors, not daring to spread their wings in such a narrow space. All the other mutants were asleep now, as were the white-coats, who had their emergency lodgings on the southern wing of the building (only Merlynthwarte lived here year round). The two bird kids heard nothing but their own breath and light footfalls, and coming from far off rooms, the faint humming of slumbering machines…

…until they turned that corner on the second floor and the occupant of the Interrogation Closet started hollering. The voice sounded like it belonged to a prepubescent boy—a prepubescent boy who hadn't slept or eaten in over twenty-four hours.

"LET ME OUT, COSMIC SCUM! YOU'LL NEVER GET ME TO TALK!"

"And that is…?" Fang asked.

Keira sucked in her breath, clearly annoyed. "_That _is the pesky human kid who should have died in March whom you stole the Blackwood documents from."

He nodded. "Now that you say that, I recognize the voice."

Something rubbed against his ankles, and he nearly jumped in surprise. "Oh…hi, Cleo. Why are you head-butting my leg?"

"Because I'm a cat, bird brain," she grumbled.

"Cleo?" said Keira presently. "When I open this door, will you spring in and stick the undersized smelly human in the arm with the tranquilizer needle?"

"What's in it for me?"

"I'll feed you some of my miniature faeries."

Cleo stretched luxuriously. "It's a deal," she yawned.

Keira punched in the password and the black glass door peeled open. Cleo slipped inside. Fang looked for the kid in the darkness, but even with his raptor vision, he could only detect the outline of a short, skinny boy with bad hair. He couldn't see a face.

While the cat set about her job, Keira took Fang's arm and steered him down the hallway.

"Your cat eats _faeries_?" he asked incredulously. "Aren't Friskies good enough?"

"They're not the human-sized type of faerie," she huffed in reply. "They're not even the Underground kind, which are the size of children. These things are smaller than your clenched fist. I keep them in a jar in my room as a nightlight."

_Faeries have souls too! _he wanted to shout. "Keira, I think you missed my point…"

"REMOVE THESE BONDS AT ONCE, SINISTER FIEND! YOUR EVIL PLAN WILL NEVER…hey! What are you doing with that needle? Hey...mmm, cookies…"

And the Interrogation Closet was silent.

…**..**

Keira switched off the alarm system, and they slipped outside through a side door without any trouble.

"Do you hear that?" Fang whispered. "Coming from the river. Sounds like a battle."

Keira nodded. "So?"

"Let's check it out."

They flew to the top of a building further down, and sat on the edge with their legs dangling just to spite gravity. Bird kids did things to spite gravity a lot.

A massive battle was indeed taking place on the bridge. Metal crashed on metal in the still-glowing city lights. Fang's keen eyes could discern that the figures far below were mostly kids his own age, and many of them wore Greco-Roman armor.

_They must be the demigods._

Not one demigod had responded to his invite back in January. He wondered if they would still be fighting this battle if they had contacted him. How much could he have helped?

He sighed despondently, his wings shivering in the cool night wind.

"Keira, how does your father treat you?"

She pouted. "He's hot and cold. Some days he loves me. Some days he hates me and doesn't even think I'm human. Of course, I hate him too now, because he wants to kill you."

"Ah. And your mom…?"

"I have no real mother. I got the rest of my DNA from a kidnapped water nymph, which explains my good looks. Sometimes I wish I could have met her."

_Maybe she can be turned good after all. _"If the demigods asked you to fight with them against…whoever it is they're fighting against, what would you say?"

"I would laugh them out of the building!" She did have a lovely laugh, tripping and trilling like clear brook-water. "If they're wiped out, everybody's wiped out, and then I can rule."

_I should have guessed. _"You want to rule?"

"Of course I do! Max doesn't deserve the whole planet."

Fang bit his lip. _She deserves it far more than you do._

"Fang, don't mind if I change the subject, but how did you know Sarah Blackwood's rabbit?"

"Um…Sarah stole Cottonbutt from me, dirty thief." He was grateful that Angel wasn't here, as she would have known he was lying and broadcast it. "Cottonbutt is my best friend, like Cleo is your best friend."

"Aw!" she giggled. "I'm so happy you got Cottonbutt back, then. I was going to feed her to Cleo!"

"Yes, I remember."

"And the Blackwood girl—if that _was_ a girl—is dead now, so she can't cause us any more problems."

"Dead?"

He'd assumed they were keeping Sarah in an isolation chamber like the McNamara kid, somewhere in the Institute. He barely knew the girl, and although he'd told himself that she simply hadn't been able to contact him, it was more likely that she had purposefully ignored his advances. What sort of advances they were he wasn't sure. Nevertheless, he felt some small place inside him shrivel with the news of her passing.

"How did it happen?"

"She jumped off the bridge when she saw us coming." Keira stared coolly into the distance.

Fang grunted in reply. He didn't know Sarah well, but it didn't seem like her to give up without a fight. It was hard to tell, between the dim light from the buildings and all the makeup she was wearing, but Keira appeared to have a black eye. _She might not be telling me the whole story._

Something changed on the battlefront. An invisible force sent cars, demigods and monsters careening off the bridge, splashing into the water. The force knocked in the faces of both bird kids, like the feeling you get when you stick your head out the window of a speeding car. Fang and Keira scrambled back a few feet, in case the current of air dragged them off the edge of the roof before their wings figured out what was happening.

"What do you suppose that was?" he asked.

"Dunno. Daddy will probably want to steal it."

And then the bridge broke.

Giant pieces of asphalt crumbled into the water. Humanoid and monstrous screams mingled as they fell to their deaths.

"I'm gonna fly in for a closer look," Keira stated. Her purple eyes looked crazy, just like her father's.

Fang caught her arm. "Too dangerous. Remember they have archers. And pegasi."

The echoes of the debris slid across the water and faded, just as the faintest tendrils of a red sunrise eased over the horizon. A hard, flippant voice carried through the air. Fang had no clue who was speaking, but they frightened him.

"Until this evening, Jackson. I know you haven't drowned."

_He'd better not have, _Fang thought. He knew he'd probably have an ally in Percy Jackson, assuming he could ever sit down with him face to face.

Clearly he didn't have much time, and his whole plan depended on speed.

He realized absently that he hadn't let go of Keira's arm. _Magnificent. _

She noticed. "I'm touched that you held me back from danger."

"Of course I did." He deepened his voice. He knew that he melted Max, and Lissa, and Bridget, and pretty much any female, when he talked like that. (It hadn't worked on Sarah, but she was an oddity, may she rest in peace).

"Is that so?" Keira drew closer to him, purple eyes sparkling. She was sure of success. "Fang, before she died, Blackwood told me something disturbing."

"Blackwood's middle name was Disturbing. What did she say? I can ease your mind."

"She said you liked her better than me."

He chuckled. "What? She was lying. She knew how that would upset both of us."

"So you _do _like me better."

"I do. But it's not high praise to just say I liked you better than Sarah Blackwood—who was evil, psychotic, ugly, and apparently gender-confused. I like you better than Dwyer, and she's a babe. I like you better than Maximum Ride herself, and many consider her the most beautiful girl in the world." He cupped Keira's face in his hand and leaned his forehead against hers. "Keira Merlynthwarte, I like you better than anyone."

"I knew you would!" she whispered. _I must be a pretty good actor. She's swallowing every word of this._

Fang pressed his lips to hers and kissed her lightly. She threw her arms around his neck. He felt her weight heavily, as though she were about to faint.

Softly, he eased his hand across her face, to the spot where her jawbone met her neck, the curetted sinus. He struck like lightning with the blade of his hand.

Keira was out cold before she even realized she had been tricked.

"Sorry to stoop that low," Fang whispered to the unconscious girl. With the strength of ten ordinary humans he lifted her up and started flying slowly back to the Institute.

She had shown him everything he needed to know.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>I know Percy didn't fall off the bridge in canon, but I think that's an ok deviation from canon. I changed it to suit a wonderful idea suggested by xBlownxAwayx; here are three virtual cookies for her (::) (::) (::)

While you're here, check out this awesome new story: _When Worlds Merge _by Meggie starxx. Here's the link: s/8447789/1/When-Worlds-Merge. It's a crossover of _Percy Jackson, The Mortal Instruments, _and _Harry Potter._


	34. Interlude: Percy

INTERLUDE

Exhausted, Percy closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall into the water.

He shut out the voice of Kronos grating above him. He shut out the screams of the dying, the sickening splashes of people, cars and chunks of bridge hitting the water and sinking.

This was war. He couldn't afford to think about all those he couldn't save.

_I need to recharge. I need to come to life again._

He curled into a fetal position. The last thing he knew before blacking out was that he had reached the filthy sediment at the bottom.

…**..**

He came to standing on the floor of a bedroom, whose walls were painted with murals of angels. In the moonlight, everything looked silver and black and dark blue. Percy was swathed in shadow.

Kneeling, his elbows propped on the window-sill, was a boy about his own age; tall, black-haired and handsome like himself, but this guy was pale as marble and his eyes were deep blue like Thalia's. Apparently he couldn't sleep—he looked haggard, his hair stuck up on one side of his head, and he wore long-boxers-and-unbuttoned-flannel-shirt pajamas. This outfit exposed the strange black tattoos all over him.

Alec Lightwood, shadow-hunter, was apparently praying. A solitary tear slid down his cheek. _Things must be pretty desperate if even these arrogant fools want help from the next world._

"Look, if you're up there, give me a sign. I know I must be having these dreams for a reason. We may be estranged, but we are the same at the root. We have the same goals and face the same enemies. If Olympus fails, Idris won't be far behind." He paused and shuddered. "Should we throw in our lot with the demigods?"

"We'd appreciate the help, Lightwood," Percy blurted.

Alec jumped, eyes huge with alarm. "Good Angel," he whispered furiously. He rose slowly to his feet, picking up a bow leaning against his dresser. "Jackson, if you want to make a habit of these surprise attacks, you should know that your eyes glow in the dark." He started moving toward Percy, fitting an arrow to the string.

_Whoever brought me here, get me out! _Percy thought. After all, this could only be a dream or vision. Alec and the room dissolved into octopus ink, and Percy felt himself being rushed away by a current or a storm wind.

…**.**

The son of Poseidon came awake with a start, still at the bottom of the river, but unsure if he was in the same spot where he'd fallen asleep. The distant light above was orange. It must be morning.

A drowned kid laid next to him on the grime—an extremely skinny boy with ridiculously long, braided black hair. He was dirty and bloody enough to have been in the battle, but he wore neither armor nor the combat fatigues of Kronos' human mercenaries, and he carried no weapons. He was propped up on something; Percy rolled him over to discover it was a backpack.

The dead boy's face was familiar, but Percy couldn't place it.

He realized then that the boy was not dead. His chest rose and fell, albeit faintly—and that was the chest of a girl, not a boy. In the water, her baggy t-shirt clung to her slight form.

She was the one celebrating her birthday with Amy, Clary and Simon on the fourth of July. They'd been on that leaky old ship when Percy and Beckendorf blew it up.

Percy felt tears prickle behind his wet eyes at the thought of Beckendorf, who had sacrificed his life in an attempt to sink Kronos' infernal ship, the _Princess Andromeda. _How badly he wished he could go back in time to save his friend.

But this girl had been his friend too, a long time ago. Her name was Sarah Blackwood, and she came from Arizona. She'd attended fifth grade with him at that monster-infested Wilderness School. She'd written most of his book reports, earning him the highest grades of his life. They'd meant to keep in touch after school ended, but though she knew how to contact him, she never did.

The following year he'd found out he was a demigod, which had a way of making his whole life up till then seem hazy and empty. He'd forgotten all about her.

A more thoughtful person might have wondered how Sarah was still alive after what was presumably a long time at the bottom of the East River. Assuming they ruled out any demonic activity, they would wonder whether she could be trusted. At most, they might use sea god powers to send her to the surface, but let her fend for herself.

But Percy was never known to put much thought into anything, and he was famously reckless when it came to his friends. He folded her into his arms and shot toward to the surface.

…**..**

Climbing back onto land, he unhappily discovered they were in Brooklyn. He knew he could handle whatever monsters patrolled this territory, but he also knew that this was the land of the Egyptian magicians and the Nephilim, neither of whom would be happy to see him. He was invincible and well-armed…then again Sarah didn't look like she'd be up for any fighting…he needed to summon Blackjack…

He laid the unconscious girl on the concrete, wondering what he'd have to do if she didn't wake up soon.

_Did I really appear to Alec Lightwood last night? _He considered. Demigod dreams are always true. _Of course I did. Duh. _

In that case, perhaps he should go to that Institute of theirs (not to be confused with the Itex Institute for Higher Living). He knew now he had a foot in the door. He doubted Alec and Isabelle's parents would go for it, but maybe an Iris Message of the carnage approaching their sanctuary would convince them—

Sarah's eyes snapped open and she started taking in huge gulps of air. She stared at Percy like he was her worst nightmare.

"I'm sorry, Mom," she whispered. She pulled herself to her feet and began to stagger away, towards Brooklyn and whatever horrors waited for them there.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Thank you, xBlownxAwayx, for your fantastic idea! I am sorry that I didn't do it justice.


	35. Interlude: Calvin

INTERLUDE

_Spaceman Spiff perilously pilots his swift but small spacecraft through tiers of tyrannical towers! The hideous Graknils of Planet Grawaka are hot on his heels!_

_ Desperate, Spiff dives his spacecraft into the dank depths of the Ozank 17 Ocean! He's going down with such velocity he can feel his skin struggling to separate itself from his skeleton!_

_ Spiff hits the sea with a sickening splash! He can't control the craft anymore! The water overwhelms his abilities! He's going under!_

_ He's going under!_

"HE'S GOING UNDER!" Calvin screamed, and came back to consciousness.

A solitary light winked above him, barely lessening the darkness of the Interrogation Chamber. Fang towered over Calvin, yanking a needle from his arm.

"Who's going under?" Fang asked distractedly. He added in a mumble, "I can think of quite a few people who 'went under' recently."

Calvin answered the question with one of his own. "What are _you_ doing here, skulking fiend? Have you come to dispatch me?" His voice was hoarse from days of shouting. Now he could barely raise it above a whisper.

"No," Fang hissed. "I have not in fact come to dispatch you. Don't tempt me."

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm setting you free. We're all breaking out of here tonight. We're gonna help Percy Jackson."

He flicked open a pocketknife; Calvin shrunk back instinctively. Fang cut his bonds, and Calvin stumbled to the floor, wrists and ankles numb. The older boy had to half-carry him out of the room and down the hallway.

_I hope he doesn't know I'm the guy behind the noodles. He might leave me for the talking cat. _

Fang stopped at a glass door. Whatever lay behind it was too dark for Calvin to distinguish anything but stacks of square shapes.

The bird kid punched a sequence of letters into the keypad and the door retracted into the ceiling.

"Wake up, everybody," he whispered, switching on a flashlight. Calvin could see now that the squares were cages stacked one atop another, cages filled with mutants and accidental monsters. He shuddered, feeling a strange sudden sympathy for Fang. _This is how he grew up? That explains everything. _Not sure how the occupants of the room would react to his presence, he stood in the doorway, observing.

"You're back?" panted a hairy kid with big brown eyes whose tongue lolled like a dog's. "You're back? You're back? Yay! I thought that witch Keira had put you to sleep."

Fang dared a chuckle. "You know something funny about Keira, Sparky? She may be the daughter of an evil overlord, but she's not terribly bright. She trusted me. I learned the password from her. Then…let's just say, when she wakes up she probably won't remember any of this." He strode down the aisle, slicing at the cage bars with his pocketknife. The bars evaporated upon impact.

"How are you doing that?" asked someone Calvin couldn't see.

Fang twirled the blade in his flashlight beam. "This baby is solid imperial gold. Got it from a certain Jason Grace, resident of Camp Jupiter, New Rome, California."

_I want a knife like that._

Fang paused before one cage, his perfect face contorted. "Hobbes, that's disgusting."

_HOBBES?!_

Thoughtlessly Calvin tore into the room. His sneakers skidded on the slick floor and he careened into Sparky, but he barely noticed.

Fang was looking at a teenaged boy whose red hair was streaked with black. The guy had strange eyes—yellow green with no whites. As Calvin got closer he saw that the kid's skin had a faint striped pattern. He had sharp teeth like a vampire…and a skinny stripey tail sticking out of his pants.

Fang looked grossed out because the guy was licking his own palm and rubbing it on his hair.

Then the tiger kid looked up. "Oh gods, it can't be…Calvin? Calvin McNamara?"

"Hobbes!"

Hobbes hopped primly out of his cage, landing on all fours. He came over and wrapped Calvin in a bear hug. Calvin felt his own tears soak into Hobbes' shirt, and Hobbes' dripping onto his hair.

"I thought you were dead!"

"I was kidnapped by whichever one of these horrible white-coats started the fire. How did _you _survive? I gave you up for lost."

"I hopped on my killer bicycle and took off. Who'd have thought that malevolent piece of metal would save my life, huh?" He pulled back to study his best friend's face. It was not quite the same face he remembered. "But Hobbes, what did they do to you? Last time we met, you weren't…um, humanoid."

"One does not simply walk into Itex and come out the same." The tiger boy managed a smile. "This form has its advantages, though. I can still morph into a tiger—a big menacing jungle tiger. And if I look human, at least I have a chance with babes like Susie Derkins."

"Ewwwww!" Calvin exclaimed, out of habit at this point. He hugged Hobbes again. "I don't care what form you're in, old buddy. Just as long as you're alive. I missed you."

Fang cleared his throat. "Do you guys know each other?"

"Obviously," Hobbes replied. "Calvin here is my adoptive brother. He knew I was alive even when I was still a wimpy stuffed animal."

By this time all the mutants—the living ones, at least—had left their cages and crowded the aisle.

"I ask because if my plan succeeds, you will have plenty of time to catch up later, and if not—" Fang slung a dying fish kid over his shoulder and ran towards the door. "Just come with me, ok?"

…**..**

From all across the building they heard the screaming of alarms as they slunk along the hallways and down the stairs, as quietly as they possibly could.

Fang drew in a deep breath, scanning their barely-moonlit surroundings with his raptor eyes. "Prepare for battle," he muttered.

Everyone had their own way to do that.

Calvin watched as Hobbes morphed from a human shape to a true tiger, like he said he would. It was awful—the way his jawbone expanded and bent, how massive his torso become, how the space between his eyes widened and his teeth elongated. Mercifully, it was over quick.

Sure enough, white-coats and some of their trained mutant goons appeared out of every corridor. At least the humans had to run. Certain types of goon—like the winged werewolves called Erasers—flew towards them.

"Every freak for themselves," Fang hissed.

And then the bullets started flying.

…

Calvin could barely make sense of what happened next.

He saw a crocodile kid take a chunk out of an Eraser's wing.

Sparky leapt at a white-coat, jaws snapping, and then an Eraser knocked him to the ground in a flurry of teeth and canine yowls.

Hobbes had Jeb Batchelder in his jaws and was shaking him like a dog shakes a bone. A little blood trickled onto the man's lab coat. Calvin had often dreamt of Hobbes attacking people, but not that he saw it, he hoped he would never have to again.

A girl with feathery skin and an eagle's head scooped up Silverstein with her taloned hands, flew her over the railing, and dropped her. The floor was a good three stories below at least.

This moved the fight out towards the railings and the great central stairs.

A female white-coat grabbed Calvin and started running back towards the cage room with him.

_I can't be captured again. Think! Become someone else!_

He'd discovered turning into a space explorer or a superhero at will made him feel brave in the face of school bullies. Could it help him escape death?

"You're no match for me, foul fiend!" he snarled in the woman's ear.

"Really? You're just a little boy from the Midwest who has no idea what he's up against."

"That's where you're wrong. I am no little boy. I. AM. _**STUPENDOUS MAN!"**_

He shouted this last part in her ear so loud that she dropped him involuntarily. He kicked her hard in the ankle and she stumbled. While she was distracted, Calvin ran back towards his allies to find them still in the thick of battle.

One pair of combatants were fighting all the way down the stairs—Merlynthwarte and Fang. The Doctor yielded a long broadsword, which Fang parried with an equally long golden blade that glowed in the shadows. The boy was much nimbler and had the advantage of wings, but the old man was by far the better swordsman. Either of them could win.

Hobbes dropped Batchelder. The man lay limp and bloodied on the floor. Dead or unconscious? Calvin was afraid to ask.

"Calvin!" the tiger growled. The voice was much deeper and rougher than Hobbes'—at least, Hobbes before he was experimented on. "They're calling reinforcements. Jump on my back! We have to get out of here!"

_Pretend this is old times. Pretend there's no battle. Pretend he's just putting you on his shoulders so you can reach the cookies on the top shelf._

Calvin grabbed the scruff of Hobbes' neck and pulled himself haphazardly up by it.

On the steps, Fang flew out of the reach of Merlynthwarte's sword, dealing a kick to his head.

A normal-looking girl leaned over the railing and shouted to him, "Just knock him out and be done with it! More are coming! We have to leave!"

"Thank you, Kate. Duly noted." Fang smashed his sword over the Chairman's head, sending him to the floor unconscious.

Kate and a few others climbed onto Hobbes' massive back behind Calvin. The tiger took a huge leap and practically flew down the steps.

…

Hobbes threw all his mass against the glass doors, and they surged out onto the sidewalk.

The red sun was slowly climbing the heavens. Already the morning was warm. A breeze ruffled Calvin's hair. He smelled death not far away—the direction of the Williamsburg Bridge.

That was the direction they were charging in now. A few mutants were missing from their party; whatever befell them could not have been pleasant.

Others kept up but were severely injured. The eagle girl's wings were bloodied and dragged along the ground.

"Will they follow us, Ratchet?" Fang asked a normal-looking boy who had just caught up.

Ratchet shook his head. "I doubt it. They know we won't get far."

Fang snickered. "They can think that." Then his smirk disappeared.

They had reached the Williamsburg Bridge—or what was left of it.

"Did you know the bridge was out?" Calvin demanded.

The bird kid shook his head. "I knew there was a skirmish here, but I didn't know how bad the damage was." He knelt by a nearby manhole. "But that is not a problem."

"Um, it's not?" asked the hammerhead guy.

"No." Fang's smile returned. He pried the manhole cover off. "Fear not; the demigods have showers. We're taking this operation underground."

**...**

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><p><strong>Special Edition Author's Note<strong>

_Ron:_ I think that was your best chapter yet, GwF!

_Jace:_ Nah. I wasn't in it.

_Fang:_ Ron, you just think it was the best because GwF played "Requiem for a Tower" 15 times in a row while she was writing it.

_GwF:_ Well, I tried. The part where Calvin and Hobbes meet again is my first attempt at warm and fuzzy stuff; I know it was atrocious. However, I do think this action sequence was better than the one in chapter 32. Please review!


	36. XXVIII: Out of Thought and Time

**Special Edition Author's Note**

_GwF:_ Whew! Sorry for not updating in so long. I had a writer's block. Hopefully it's gone now.

_Nudge:_ Hey, check out all the new reviewers, followers and favoriters! Welcome Meggie starxx , allyalexandra1999, TheDreamerOfFantasy, cptmurphy, and fanficfantasies! Gaia was Framed is our loyal author, and we are the characters who appear to her and drive her mad!

_GwF:_ If you guys have made it this far, you deserve a medal. And lots of virtual cookies.

(::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::) (::)

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><p>"<em>A bended bow is lifted in heaven…and the furrows of the whipDescend to generations that in future times forget." _~William Blake, _America: A Prophecy_

ACT II / LEVEL ONE

XXVIII. Out of Thought and Time.

_Speaker: Sarah._

Drowning always takes a long time in the movies, but in real life it's quite fast. By the time you figure out what's happening, you're already dead.

…**..**

I woke up dry, in clean comfortable clothing. I lay on a porch swing. Desert wind swept over me, warm and sandy. The sky was deep clean blue—too clean to be the skies over New York. These were the heavens of rural Arizona.

Sitting up I could see this was the porch swing of my old house. Hallelujah! I was home! Had the chaos and bloodshed, had my death, all been a mere dream?

And then over the wind came the sound of the world's biggest, best gospel choir.

If I stared narrow-eyed into the distance I could see the silhouettes of the Taj Mahal and the Eiffel Tower in between the familiar mesas.

_So this is the afterlife, then. I like it. _

I climbed off the porch and ran around the house.

My mother knelt in the vegetable garden, pulling weeds from between the tomato plants. She looked younger than she had this past year; when she died her hair had been streaked with silver, but now it was pure black like mine. Her copper skin glowed in the sunlight.

When she saw me approach, she stood up and flung her arms around me.

"Sarah! How I've missed you!"

"I missed you too, Mom," I snuffled.

She held me at arms' length and studied me. "I think you've grown."

"Yes, ma'am. Two full inches, and no signs of stopping!" In January I had been five-foot-eight, now I stood five-foot-ten. Also, despite my best efforts, puberty was beginning to work on me. My lanky form was slowly but surely starting to fill out. Soon people could no longer mistake me for a boy. I dreaded that day.

I wanted to savor this happy moment, but there were things I needed to ask. "Mom? Why did you and Dad never tell Ron and me the truth about your old job?"

She sighed. "We got three months' worth of Purgatory for that. I'm sorry, Sarah. We dragged our feet. We knew we'd have to tell you someday, but we…I guess we just didn't want you to think badly of us. It was wrong of us to withhold that information…" She squeezed my narrow shoulder. "Learn from our mistake: no matter what horrible things you may have done, tell your loved ones up front. Don't wait too long for the 'perfect moment'—you may die before it comes."

"Thanks, Mom. I'll remember that."

A small child ran out the back-door towards us. The kid had messy black hair and a deep tan. She wore a baggy t-shirt and denim overalls that were slightly too big—the same clothes I'd worn when I was that little.

The little girl came to a stop in front of me, and I saw that although she mostly took after Mom, she had Dad's eyes—huge and washed-out blue.

"Mom, did you tell Sarah about what she's in for when she goes back?"

I turned to Mom. "So I'm not dead for good, then?"

"No, honey. You're not even technically dead right now—though you are very close to being so. This is not Heaven proper, but an adjoining little realm where the spirits of the unconscious and nearly-dead might go if they are summoned. I designed it to look like our old home because I knew it would make you comfortable." She paused. "I take it you know your sister Naomi?"

"Of course I do!" I bent down and hugged the child. She'd only lived for six months, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to guess what she might have looked like older. "How are you, little sis?"

"I'm ok," she replied. "Not sure you will be for long."

"Why?" I released her. "What's going to happen to me?"

Mom wiped the sweat from her brow. "Well…your younger brother, it seems, has bitten off more than he can chew. He's going to need help getting out of his mess. I'm afraid that's your job."

I shook my head. "A big sister's work is never done. Where will I find him?"

She paused. "He's travelling at the moment. When he stops moving, I'll know where he is."

"But Mom!" Naomi exclaimed. "Sarah doesn't have time! She needs to go back now, or she'll drown after all."

"Right you are." Mom cupped my chin in her hands and looked me in the eye. "Understand this. Bad things are happening, but we cannot undo them; we can only hope to fix them. You, Ron and Amy are part of this war now, though you never asked for it. As long as you are part of it, you will never be safe. You will face the terrors of Hell, the apathy of the gifted, and any skeletons left in the family closet that you haven't yet discovered. You may well die—for real.

"Don't get too friendly with the Gifted Ones—the kids you've met over the past several months and those like them. They share a few goals with you, but they will not hesitate to kill you or worse if you are deemed no longer useful. Don't work with them at all if you can help it. You are more than capable of forging your own path. Be brave, be discerning, and be ever-watchful, like I know you are."

"Thanks, Mom. I won't let you down."

"And Sarah?"

"Yes?"

She hugged me again. "I was so proud of you yesterday. You were in a terrible situation, but you did not let the forces of evil intimidate you."

I hugged her back. I breathed in the scent of her patchouli shampoo, and wondered how soon it was before I would smell it again.

"Sarah!" she shouted as Naomi and I started to walk away.

"Yeah?"

"Remember Daphne."

…

Naomi walked me back to the house.

"So how do I return to the mortal world?" I asked her.

"Just lie down on the porch swing again and close your eyes. You'll wake up before you know it."

I could still hear the voices on the wind. "Where's the singing coming from?"

"That's the choir of angels, the music of the spheres. Duh."

"Ah. Silly me. Should've known."

They were singing:

_Go down, Moses_

_ Way down in Egypt land_

_ Tell old Pharaoh to let my people go…_

"But this song was born out of slavery, associated with suffering and oppression. Wouldn't they sing happy songs in Heaven?"

"They sing happy songs, sad songs, and songs that aren't either. The sad songs can't be forgotten. We can feel the suffering of our friends and families on Earth; this is how we pay tribute to them. Until there is no more strife, there will be sad songs in Paradise."

That thought was somber enough to strike us both silent for a while.

We reached the porch; I climbed on the swing and laid down.

"So, sis, why are you six years old? I thought everyone is kind of ageless in the afterlife."

"I am ageless. I just decided to appear as a six-year-old because that's how old I would be if I had lived. It might make you feel more at ease."

I stared at the wood-grain patterns of the porch roof above me. Already my surroundings seemed darker, my eyelids heavier. My spirit was getting pulled gradually back to Earth.

"Naomi, who's Daphne?"

She opened her mouth to tell me, then reconsidered. "Classified information, sis. You'll find out eventually."

Then she started giggling.

I put my elbows behind my head. "What's so funny, little sister?"

It took her a few deep breaths before she could speak again. "Mom didn't tell you the worst of what you're gonna find."

"How is that funny? What did she withhold from me?"

"Oh…heheheheheh…you're getting a jumbo serving of teen angst and drama. Clothing worries! Body insecurity! Friend problems! Boy trouble!"

At this point I was so sleepy and relaxed these words didn't even frighten me. "I don't believe you."

"You should! The souls of the righteous can't lie!"

I was asleep.

…**.**

At light speed my spirit shot through corridors of light and color and dark, between atoms and galaxies.

I became aware that always ahead of me were twin points of emerald light. They were round, and started out very small, but as I rushed towards them they began to grow bigger.

…

I'm not sure how long the journey took, but I woke on a sidewalk. The color of the sunlight and feel of the air suggested it was early morning. I was wet, filthy and sore, as anyone might be if they had spent the better part of yesterday crawling about the New York sewer system and fighting before spending the night at the bottom of the East River.

There was someone leaning over me.

The emerald lights I had seen were the bright green eyes of Percy Jackson.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> I'm back! I apologize for my appalling tardiness. I will update more frequently in the future, I PROMISE. In my defense, I have A) been working real hard in school, and B) I hit a creative spurt with my other multichapter fan fic and decided to run with it.

Sorry if this chapter was a bit hard to follow. The rest will make more sense, I promise. The chapter title is adapted from a line in _The Lord of the Rings, _when Gandalf is explaining to Aragorn what he went through after slaying the Balrog: "Darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time…"

Is the world in this chapter the Greco-Roman afterlife, the Judeo-Christian afterlife, or something different than either? I don't know. Interpret it however you like.

While I'm here, I want to thank you guys for sticking with me, following, favoriting, reviewing, etc. There is a lot of snobbery and bad attitude in other fandoms. This little place where the PJO, MI and various other fandoms meet could not be more pleasant.

Thank you all, for being so incredibly NICE. ~GwF


	37. XXIX: Down in Egypt

**AN: **I'm sorry to have taken so long! There has been a crisis, but it's pretty much settled down now, and my Muse has finally returned to me after a long time without inspiration. I will make a serious effort to update more. I'm sorry that this chapter is so long, but it felt great to write.

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><p>XXIX. Down in Egypt.<p>

He wore armor in the style of Greek and Roman soldiers, which showed off his muscles and tan. Despite having pulled me out of the river (presumably) not too long ago, he was clean and barely wet. He stared down at me with concern. Perhaps he hadn't forgotten our friendship after all.

Not like that mattered now.

_Don't get too friendly with the Gifted Ones. They share a few goals with you, but they will not hesitate to kill you or worse if you are deemed no longer useful. Don't work with them at all if you can help it. _

Splendid. My mother had called me from beyond the grave to warn me away from kids with superpowers, and of course I wake up indebted to the most super-powered of them all.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered. I pushed myself to my feet and started walking away. Given the ordeal of yesterday, I was too weak to go fast or far.

It pained me to treat an old friend so coldly, especially after he had apparently saved my life.

But was he really the same kid I'd known? I didn't know whether he was good or evil. He might have saved me from drowning only to deliver me to a worse fate.

He stood and caught my arm. "I'm not your mom."

"I noticed."

He grimaced. "Look, I understand if you're scared of me. Most people are. But we need to work together. We're not enemies, Sarah."

Uh-oh.

"Last time someone said that to me—"

_Stop right now! _my conscience shouted. _Can you hear how terrible you sound?_

Ashamed, I tried a new approach. Maybe this was one of those situations where I couldn't avoid working with a superhuman. Besides, I knew I couldn't save Ron and Amy alone.

"I'm sorry, Percy." I looked up at him and smiled tentatively. I could remember being taller than him, and having to look up was disconcerting. He was at least six-foot-three now.

"Apology accepted."

"Um, first, thank you. You saved me from drowning."

"It was nothing," he returned with that adorable shy smile of his.

"Diving to the bottom of the East River and coming back carrying someone is not nothing."

"It is to me. Not to boast, but I _am_ the son of Poseidon."

I gulped. Demigods existed? This was even worse than I'd expected.

_Don't let him see your fear. _

"Well, anyway…uh…I'm sure you have your errands, and I have mine."

"What exactly is _your_ errand? How did you end up at the bottom of the river?"

I lowered my voice. "Itex."

His eyes widened. "How…?"

"It's about my parents. If we meet again, I'll tell you the whole story."

"You can tell me the whole story anytime, because you're coming with me."

_What should I do, God?_

Percy didn't give my prayer time to get answered. He hadn't let go of my forearm for this whole conversation, and now he steered me deeper into Brooklyn.

…

Heat shimmered on the silent sidewalk. The sun glared off Percy's armor. Most black hair looks bluish or brownish in overhead light, but his messy ebon locks glinted green.

He moved like a warrior. His eyes took in the slightest movement; his ears swiveled toward every tiny sound. His pace was swift, his gait even and quiet. Sometimes he sprinted, light and fierce as a great cat. The city was his jungle.

I tried hard to keep up with him. My filthy hair weighed my head down, and my feet were so sore from yesterday's adventures that every step felt like walking on thorns.

When we reached a park, Percy came to a stop and crouched behind a bench.

"Everything ok?" I whispered.

He yanked me down next to him. "Pretend to sleep."

I curled into the fetal position on the grass, dropped my eyes nearly closed, and evened out my breathing. He leaned against the back of the bench and faked snoring softly.

We weren't waiting long before two odd creatures appeared. They were small, standing only about five feet high. They looked like Doberman pinschers, but bipedal, and with the blubbery hides of seals. If they hadn't been carrying battle-axes and salivating blood, they might have been rather cute in a grotesque way.

Were they creations of Itex? Or something worse?

The creatures talked as they approached. They spoke English with broken grammar and Cockney accents. It makes sense that monsters wouldn't speak the Queen's English, but I'm still confused about how they got the accents of Dickensian thugs.

"So, Blubber-slicer, why is you h'afraid to storm the 'partment building an' take the 'aff-blood? You ain't turning coward, is you?"

"I. Ain't. No. Coward," spat Blubber-slicer. "I just cautious, is all. That weren't no 'hord'nary 'aff-blood. It smelled different."

"So you's scared of it 'cos it _smelled_ different? After all we's been through? Don't you know what Lord Kronos does to cowards?"

"I ain't no coward, Clownfish-eater! And Lord Kronos don't care about us. You know that. We's _disposable_. Ever wonder why we all gets sent to the front lines every time?"

I wondered what a half-blood was. I watched Percy with hooded eyes. He seemed limp as if asleep, but under the put-on slouch all his muscles were tensed.

The creatures were less than five feet away from us now.

"But like I said, that weren't no h'ord'nary 'aff-blood," Blubber-slicer continued. "It smelled more silver than gold, if you follow me."

"I don't," said Clownfish-eater curtly. "Not sure I care to. It was such a small thing, Slice. Could barely do any damage if it tried."

"Oh, but it could," his friend countered. "It looked like one 'em 'umans with red 'airs. The red 'airs ones is always more dangerous than they looks. Couldn't you feel the power off it? Nearly made me sick."

"Pray you never meets Percy Jackson, then. He'd send you crawling back to mummy." After a slight pause, "'Ey, look, it's Oil-drinker! Wonder what 'e came for."

They were joined now by a third of the same species.

"'Ullo, Slice, Fishy. Whatcha doin'?"

"Well, Drinky, I wants to take this 'aff-blood that we found in one of the 'partments 'ereabouts but Slice thinks it's too dangerous."

Oil-drinker laughed; it sounded like the creaky floorboards of a shipwreck. "Slicey m'lad, what's with you? No 'aff-blood could fight off two of us, let alone three."

"I suppose," muttered Blubber-slicer.

"So where is this 'aff-blood?"

"It's in 'partment seven on floor three of the [insert building name here] on [insert street name here]. We should 'urry."

(I don't give the address because you never know who might be reading this. Some monsters are surprisingly literate).

"Um, Slice, Drinky…I doesn't mean to alarm you, but I just realized I smells half-blood real close…and _real _strong."

"That's my cue," said Percy, and shot to his feet. Uneasily I did the same, though I don't think any of the monsters noticed me.

They all stared at my old friend, their eyes swollen with fear. He did indeed look very intimidating as he stalked around the bench towards them—tall, muscled, armored, and brandishing a…fountain pen.

"Going somewhere, gents?" he asked. He uncapped the pen and it morphed into a sword.

The creatures regained a bit of courage, raising their battle-axes and charging at him.

Percy didn't even look at them. He yanked me over by my arm and hissed in my ear: "I'll take them alone. Do you remember the address they mentioned?"

I nodded.

"Good. Find that half-blood."

He pushed me into a run and off I went.

I snuck one glance over my shoulder. Although it was three against one, I strangely had no doubt Percy would win.

…

I soon discovered that remembering the address did me little good. Ron and I had lived in Manhattan for over half a year now, but we still could barely find our way anywhere without a map. We rarely ventured into Brooklyn, and then only with Amy and her friends. By myself, I knew I couldn't navigate it at all.

I stopped in front of a graveyard gate to get my bearings.

Looking all around I could see no monsters. There were only a handful of sleeping humans in my line of vision. The sunlight above was heavy on my shoulders.

All the adventuring had upset my stomach. I leaned into the bushes and tried to vomit, but there was nothing left in my digestive tract.

I realized then that I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning.

_Don't pass out. Don't pass out. Ron needs you. Amy needs you._

Wait…the blubbery dog creatures had described the "half-blood" as a small human with red hair.

Were they referring to my brother?

So how could I find that street?

I felt despair tightening around my lungs. It was tempting to cry, but I couldn't waste my energy on that.

Slowly I reached into my backpack and yanked out my granddad's sword. It was a handsome weapon, but it didn't radiate justice and fear like Percy's did.

I took a deep breath.

_Mom? Dad? If you guys are up there, please ask God for a sign. I'm kind of stuck at the moment, and somebody needs my help._

I shuddered and sang a little of the last song I'd heard under my breath. That always calmed me down.

_Go down, Moses_

_Way down in Egypt land…_

"Hey!" someone behind me snapped.

The speaker was a girl who reminded me a lot of Amy. She ringed her blue eyes in dark makeup and her blonde hair was streaked with red and purple. With his arm around her stood a tall, handsome boy dressed all in black. If he weren't deathly pale, I would have mistook him for Fang; they had the same giant dark eyes and tousled ebon hair.

I turned around and grinned at them awkwardly. "Um, hello. I didn't know anyone was awake."

"I should certainly hope you didn't, waltzing into Egyptian territory singing about Moses the rogue mage," she retorted. She had a British accent.

_Egyptian territory? _Percy hadn't warned me about that.

I swallowed. "I think I'm lost."

The boy cleared his throat. "I don't think we've been introduced. I'm Anubis, and this is the Lady Sadie Kane. Who are you?"

"Call me Blackwood." We shook hands. Her hand felt normal, but his was cold as death. "Pardon me if this is a rude question, but are you _the _Anubis? The undertaker god?"

"One and the same."

Sadly, this did not surprise me.

"So, Blackwood, why are you wandering about Brooklyn?"

If they wanted to kill me, they would have by now.

"Uh…looking for a friend." I told them the address the creatures had mentioned. "Could you tell me how to get there?"

Sadie gave me several landmarks to go by. "Be careful, though. That's Nephilim or 'shadow-hunter' territory. They'll kill anything that moves."

"Duly noted. Thank you both very much." I started to walk away. "And by the by, Sadie—don't judge Moses so harshly. He might've broken some Egyptian laws, but what he did for the Israelites was still terrifically noble and brave."

She chuckled. "We can discuss it sometime if we're both still alive."

…**..**

As I followed Sadie's directions, I wondered how much time I had to find that "half-blood", and whether or not that half-blood was my brother.

_Once you see the creepy old gothic church, take a right, and then turn at the crosswalk…_

What would I do once I'd found the half-blood?

How was Percy? Would I see him again?

This building I was walking by matched the "creepy old gothic church" as described by Sadie. I started to jog. Its dark windows seemed to leer at me, and I hoped nothing decided to jump out.

A good-looking youth lounged on the doorstep. At first I thought he was asleep, but as I got closer I saw that his eyes, the same yellow as his long hair, were open and alert. His arms were covered in long black tattoos.

I recognized him then as the guy who was hitting on Clary at that Kaiser girl's party. That had only been three nights ago, but with all that had happened since, it seemed like three years.

"Jerry Fray?" he asked disinterestedly. "You're far from home."

Just looking at this fellow, I knew he couldn't be trusted. "I think you've mistaken me for someone else." Whether he was insulting me or truly did think I was some boy named Jerry Fray, I did not know and did not care.

"You can think that, Fray, if it makes you feel better."

"I will, thanks. Have a nice day."

"We have something you want. It's inside, if you'd like to see it."

I looked past him to the dark interior of the church. It looked like the type of place Tim Burton would set a movie. Although most big dark gothic buildings are scary, this one filled me with special dread, like if I stepped over that threshold I could never go back.

"I'm not that stupid," I whispered, and ran.

…**.**

The front door of the apartment building had been locked for the night, but the back door had not been—or perhaps someone or something had broken in.

The door closed silently, leaving me in near-total dark. I climbed up the cold metal staircase mostly going by touch.

At the third floor I stopped, opened another door, and found myself in a hallway. There were a few windows, and the sunshine pouring in stung my eyes.

There was no sound, except for snoring, and a child singing:

_Money, money, money_

_ Funny, funny, funny_

_ Bunny, bunny, bunny_

_ Honey, honey, honey…_

Although tempted to investigate, I decided not to. It was coming from door 304, so the kid was probably safe.

The door to apartment 307 had been wrenched open. Furniture had been smashed, books and paintings torn to pieces and trampled. Colorful liquids had splattered all over the scene; whether they were paint or something's innards I did not wish to know.

Gingerly I walked through the destruction.

_Have I come too late?_

I slipped in a puddle of red sparkly something and slid down the little hall, coming to a stop in front of the bathroom.

Kneeling in front of the toilet was a small person, who was apparently vomiting.

Part of my heart sank. The person's hair was too clean a red color, too pretty and long, to be that of my brother.

I stood. The person heard the glittery slop squeaking under my shoes and turned to look.

It was Clary Fray.

The blond boy had called me "Jerry Fray". Was there any connection?

I'd worry about that later.

Clary needed help. Her skin was turning ash grey, and there was vaguely greenish fluid leaking from her eyes. She looked like she hadn't slept or eaten in a long time.

"Do I know you?" she croaked through chapped lips.

"Yes. I'm Amy Porter's cousin. My name's Sarah."

"Ok. Now I remember. What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to rescue you. Percy Jackson sent me."

"Percy? What's he got to do with it?"

I shrugged. "I wish I could tell you. I don't understand any of this. But Clary, what happened to your apartment? What happened to _you_?"

Shivering, she sat on the edge of the bathtub and wrapped the shower curtain around her shoulders.

"You're going to think I'm crazy."

"I doubt that. Go on."

"I guess you know that everyone is asleep—almost everyone."

I nodded.

"Philippa Gaunt and I stayed over at Allyson Kaiser's house three nights ago. We were the only two girls who woke up the next morning.

"Philippa's mom came and got us on a flying carpet. She's a djinn, apparently."

I'd never paid much attention to Layla Gaunt before, but if she was "gifted" as my mom put it, that certainly explained her beauty and mystery.

"They dropped me off here," Clary continued. "I found the apartment the way it is now, everything ruined. There were three…things waiting for me. They looked like crocodiles, but their hides were black. They tried to eat me." She shuddered deeply.

I fought my way through the wreckage to the kitchen, poured some water into one of the only glasses remaining unbroken, and brought it back for her.

"Thanks." She took a sip. "I killed them with one of my mom's big kitchen knives. I lucked out with the first; that only took about ten minutes. The rest were hard. I fought them all day yesterday. When I'd finally killed them both, I looked for my mom everywhere, but she's gone." She began to sniffle. "I called Uncle Luke, but he's out of range. I spent all last night and all this morning barfing into the toilet. The crocs bit me, and I think their saliva is poisonous. I'm going to die."

We heard crashing and cursing in the entryway. The voices sounded wrong—too guttural to be human.

"See?" Clary whispered. "They've come to finish me off."

I laid a hand on her shoulder to steady her. "They won't if we work together."

…**.**

The invaders checked everywhere but the bathroom first, which was good because it allowed Clary and I time to ready our weapons.

The trio of Blubber-slicer, Clownfish-eater, and Oil-drinker had arrived, and they had invited some friends.

Their beady eyes glittered at the sight of Clary.

"'Ello, li'l 'aff-blood!" said Clownfish-eater cheerfully. "We sees your 'ome is destroyed, and we come to take you back with us. Lord Kronos would like a look at you."

"Then I'm afraid 'Lord Kronos' will be disappointed," Clary retorted as primly as possible.

At this we stood shakily, yelled as loud as we could, and charged them, me with the sword and her with her kitchen knife. She could barely walk, so I let her lean on me.

Those creatures sure were stupid. Weak as we were, we drove them back to the kitchen before they could rally.

"Take the li'l one alive!" Oil-drinker shouted to his companions. "Kill the tall one. Lord Kronos won't have any use for it."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" Clary snarled.

Displaying strength I didn't know she had, she rammed her blade deep into his ribs.

The monster crumpled, spurting blood.

With his last breath he turned to dust, and a breeze came from nowhere to sweep the dust away.

I had no time to contemplate on that because one of the others yelled, "THEY KILLED DRINKY!" and tried to smash me on the head with a cooling fan.

I ducked, waving my sword around and hoping it would land somewhere useful.

I sliced the fan in half, but I barely grazed my aggressor.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Blubber-slicer flee the room. Whatever had scared him away, it wasn't working on his friends.

Clary had found a solid wood baseball bat behind the couch and was busy cracking skulls with it.

She kicked something in my direction.

I stooped to pick it up—a spray bottle.

The creature was about to axe me.

I dodged the blade and squirted him in the eyes.

He roared.

While he was blinded, I dragged the sword in a haphazard arc and walloped off his head.

Not even Febreeze could make that monster smell good.

…**..**

After about fifteen minutes we had managed, by the skin of our teeth, to finish them all. Nothing of our enemies remained except for little piles of disappearing dust.

Clary leaned on her baseball bat, exhausted. I clambered over to her and we high-fived.

"What now?" she panted.

At this moment Blubber-slicer came running back, with reinforcements.

This was bad. We'd just barely survived the first battle.

"Come and get us." I tried to snarl, but it came out more like a gag.

I stepped toward them and fell face down in a puddle of blue paint.

The creatures advanced, laughing, as I pulled myself up.

Nothing short of a miracle could save us now.

"Need help?" a male voice asked from behind.

On the apartment's small patio was Percy Jackson, looking glorious as usual, astride a magnificent black horse—a magnificent _winged _black horse.

I wanted to kiss him, but I just stood there with blue paint dripping off my face, smiling foolishly.

Clary's jaw dropped to the floor.

The monsters exchanged frightened glances.

Percy climbed off his stallion.

He strode gracefully into the ruined apartment. The wreckage didn't slow him down at all.

He made quick work of those creatures. He was one and they were about seven, but they didn't stand a chance. And although I hate to see beauty in killing, even in killing monsters, he was a joy to watch.

When the last monster had been dispatched, he grabbed a dishcloth, wiping the slime from Clary's face and the paint from mine.

We walked onto the patio.

Percy's pegasus was even more gorgeous up close. He had the shiniest ebon fur and feathers. His wings were huge and flapped deeply.

My old friend hoisted Clary up, and she settled herself on the stallion. Then he lifted me like I weighed nothing and sat me behind her.

"What about you?" I asked.

He smiled. "Blackjack's super-strong. He can carry three, and you two are probably the lightest people I know." With that he swung himself onto the pegasus' back.

Clary held the horse's neck, I held her shoulders, and Percy held mine. He dug in his heels slightly, and with giant, steady wing-beats we were lifted into the sky.

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>Thank you to Ezzie0215 and ShoshonaTheRose for your feedback! Thank you to PatrickNotStar for reviewing, following and favoriting! You people are the best!

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	38. XXX: The Soldiers of Olympus

**AN: **Again, I apologize profusely for taking so long! Darned schoolwork. This is a bit of a filler chapter, but after this the story will be a lot more exciting. Thank you all for sticking with me this long.

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><p>XXX. The Soldiers of Olympus.<p>

We flew level with the distant skyscrapers. From this angle you could see just how expansive this city was—even at this impressive altitude, we couldn't see the end of it in any direction. Despite it being all concrete and hard and unnatural, it was still a strange kind of beautiful.

As exciting as my first airplane ride had been back in January, this open-air pegasus flying beat it a thousand times over.

Sitting with no saddle on the winged horse was quite uncomfortable, but I ignored the pain in my thighs. A long time ago, my father had taught me how to ride bareback. I could relearn.

Clary leaned heavily forward, arms tight around the pegasus' neck. She wheezed with every breath. An odor hovered over her similar to what runs under the antiseptic in a hospital or nursing home (or the Itex Institute)—foul and sickly sweet simultaneously. The scent of death.

Percy spoke up from behind me. "Clary, we're going to get you some medical attention first thing when we land. Can you tell me what happened to you?"

Coughing, she told him the same story she'd told me. By the time she got to where I came in, it apparently took too much effort for her to speak, so I finished for her.

"Wow," he said at last. "I think the Fates led me to you. Clary, how much do you know about Greek mythology?"

"I know the basics." She leaned over to throw up, and the vomit landed in some rich person's rooftop garden. "There were twelve main gods, and they lived on Mount Olympus."

"Tell me about your parents."

She tried to chuckle. "Well, that's what we call changing the subject."

"Tell me," he repeated urgently.

"Um…I live with my mom in the apartment we just left. She's an artist."

"And your dad?"

"I never knew him. He was a captain in the Navy. Right before I was born, his ship was caught in a storm and sank."

Percy caught his breath.

"Bright green eyes," he whispered. "Beautiful, clear-sighted. Single mother of an artistic bent. Father lost at sea. Gods, now it all makes sense."

"Now all what makes sense?" she inquired. "And what did my parents have to do with the Greek gods?"

He shook his head. "I'll explain it in more detail after you've recovered a bit. By the way, Sarah?"

"Yes?"

"You're filthy. You stink like a telkhine that's eaten too much garbage. Where have you been?"

This might be tricky. Clary was in no position to hurt me, but I still didn't know whether Percy and I could trust each other. "I spent the better part of yesterday crawling through the sewers. Then I fell into the river, as you remember."

"Why exactly were you crawling through the sewers?"

"I'll explain in more detail when we land," I mumbled.

What was a telkhine, anyway?

…**.**

There was nothing left of the Williamsburg Bridge except two jagged edges on either bank.

"Percy, what happened there?"

He shuddered. "I'll tell you when the pain starts to fade."

…**..**

Shortly after this conversation Clary fell asleep. Percy urged the pegasus—Blackjack—faster. Glancing down, I discovered we'd crossed into Manhattan a while ago. The sky was completely clear—on second glance, no.

"What is that?" I asked.

"What's what?"

"That thing hovering a few stories above the Empire State Building. At first I thought it was a cloudbank, but the closer we get it looks more like…a city in the sky."

"That's Mount Olympus."

I swallowed. "I thought that was in Greece."

"The mountain called Olympus is in Greece, but the essence of the gods travels wherever the flame of Western civilization burns the brightest. Right now they live here in America."

I resisted the temptation to say, _Gandhi thought Western civilization would be a "good idea." _This was not the time for snark.

As we got closer I could see the outlines of huge ancient Greek buildings—palaces and temples with huge columns and tympanums—within the mass I'd thought was a cloud.

My parents had made sure that Ron and I had a working knowledge of classical Greece and Rome. As Dad had explained it, "This stuff is frightening and horrible, but if you don't know it you will never understand why our country is how it is today. No one can survive long if they don't know their place in history."

Everything I'd learned about the Greco-Romans came to the front of my mind, especially their mythology. Their gods were physically beautiful and super powerful, but they were also cruel and easily angered. Although a handful of the goddesses were chaste, most of the deities bred like rabbits. _(Rabbits! Oh God, what's happened to Amy? Don't think about that right now. You can't help Amy or anyone else until you know what's going on). _

I stared at Mount Olympus and realized my heart rate was up.

_If those gods are real…_

"Um, Percy…earlier today you said you were the son of Poseidon."

"Yes ma'am."

I pointed toward the floating city. "_That _Poseidon?"

"Do you know of any others?" he smiled.

He had the best smile—somehow modest and mischievous at the same time. I remember him having bad teeth in fifth grade, but now they were perfect, straight and white. He was lean but chiseled.

It occurred to me that if you took one of those marble Apollo statues and painted the skin tan, the hair black, and the eyes bright green, you'd get Percy.

Of course he was the son of a Greek god.

I just hoped my own God could still protect me.

"Percy, what were you planning to do in Brooklyn? Before we rescued Clary."

He looked down. "I was planning to ask someone for military assistance. Obviously it will have to wait."

From his lowered tone, I surmised he didn't want me to probe any further on the subject.

…**.**

Eventually Blackjack began to descend toward a huge white building with a blue roof—the Plaza Hotel. I'd seen it many times, but had never been inside.

"What's here?" I asked.

"Headquarters." The pegasus alighted on a balcony.

"Ah." _They must be the demigod army Magnus Bane mentioned. _

Percy jumped off first. He gave me an arm to descend on; once I was standing, we both gently pulled the unconscious Clary off Blackjack's neck. He carried her towards the tall sheer curtains that hung in place of a door, which would prove a feeble defense against the strong sun come noon. Blackjack took a long look at his master, as if making sure he was safe, before flying away in a booming of dark wings.

"Your noble steed seems quite intelligent," I remarked.

He smirked. "Don't let him hear you say that, and _never _call him 'noble steed' in his earshot. His ego is nearly as big as Jace Wayland's."

"I'm afraid I don't know who that is, though from the name I guess the person must be quite silly."

"You're lucky, and you're right. If Blackjack's ego is almost as big as Wayland's, that means it's roughly twice the size of the planet Neptune. By the way, we're entering the infirmary, so don't talk or move too loud."

"Have you ever known me to be loud?" I whispered.

"No." He shot me a quizzical sidelong glance before striding ahead through the curtains. "But people change."

…**.**

The demigod infirmary was pleasantly air-conditioned, and the sickbeds were far-apart enough to give all the patients space. Mellow classical music streamed low from an iPod dock in the center of the room.

Some wounded were only sleeping off moderate cuts; others appeared to be knocking on Elysium's door. Tending to them were a bunch of kids who I could tell were siblings because of their shared summery blond good looks. It was disconcerting that this family numbered about twenty, but it was sadly to be expected given their parentage. _(They're healers and they're all blond? They're probably children of Apollo)._

Percy cleared his throat, and the oldest-looking of the healers (no more than a year younger than me) quickly finished dressing the gash he'd been working on and came over.

"Who are your friends?" he asked wearily. His startlingly clear blue eyes flitted mistrustfully at me, before settling with sudden compassion on Clary, who was turning grey in Percy's arms. Greenish mucus poured from under her eyelids. "What happened to her?"

"She says it was some kind of crocodile demon. I wasn't there to identify it. The attack happened over twenty-four hours ago, if that helps. Her name is Clary Fray, and I think she may…" Percy took a deep breath, and I noticed his voice was shaking. "I think she may be my sister."

The healer paled. As if searching for evidence, he gingerly peeled back her left eyelid, and visibly swallowed when he saw the emerald iris rolling feverishly. "She's fading. I'm good at extracting poison; let's hope that will be enough." He took Clary from Percy and carried her over to an empty cot. We followed.

"Who's the other?" he asked over his shoulder.

Percy smiled tightly. "Considering the situation we are all in, I trust you two will forgive me for my lack of manners. Will, this is Sarah Blackwood, a friend from way back. Sarah, this is Will Solace, son of Apollo and our head medic."

Will raised an eyebrow at the name _Sarah, _as if he expected something more along the lines of _Jerry, _but I was used to that. I reached out to shake his hand, but he wouldn't let me until I doused my hands in sanitizer.

"Who are you the child of?" he asked.

"To the best of my knowledge, I'm not a demigod."

"How's Annabeth doing?" Percy interrupted.

Will bit his lip pensively. "Quite feverish. I think she's over the worst, but you never can be sure now. Kronos' poisons are so innovative."

He led Percy to another cot. Again I followed, not knowing what else to do.

On this cot lay a girl who looked almost as ill as Clary. She was pale, as if all the blood had left her skin, and sweat made her face shine like metal. Even so, she was quite beautiful. Her blonde hair made me think she was Apollo's daughter, but when she opened her eyes they were too different from Will's to belong to his sister. Hers were grey and sparkling, like stormclouds that conceal lightning.

"Percy, what's going on?" she croaked. "They told me when I woke up that you broke the bridge and fell off and disappeared. I was worried sick, Seaweed Brain."

_Seaweed Brain? _That had to be one of the most ridiculous nicknames I'd ever heard.

Percy sat awkwardly on the edge of the cot and patted her hand. "You shouldn't have worried about me, Wise Girl. You know the water can never hurt me. But gods, was I worried about you."

"Thanks." She forced her mouth into a smile. They locked eyes for a moment. He seemed to regard her with great tenderness; her expression, dulled by sickness, was harder to read.

I was a bit confused by all this gazing and hand-holding. Wasn't he dating Rachel?

Then again, I knew (from books, mostly) that teenage romances rarely lasted more than a month. He'd likely broken up with Rachel and started dating Annabeth in the time since I'd last seen him.

Needless to say, it was none of my business.

Annabeth slipped her hand away, and an irritable edge came into her tired voice. "And _of course_ when you come back, you've got _poor, precious_ Rachel Elizabeth with you." She nodded at Clary, whom Will's sisters were currently taking away, presumably to bathe her and get her some clean clothes.

"Uh, actually, that's not Rachel—"

Annabeth then shot me a death stare. "And not only did you bring Rachel, you also brought a homeless Na 'vi."

Percy looked over his shoulder at me and started laughing.

I caught my reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall and realized my face was still coated in blue paint. With my tall skinny build and long black braids, I really did look like one of those tribal cat aliens from _Avatar._

Part of me was insulted that Percy would laugh at me like that, but the greater part was far too busy laughing _with_ him to care.

I turned back to Annabeth, pointing to my cerulean visage. "This is not my natural skin tone."

Here Percy took over, introducing me once again as his "friend from way back." "Sarah, this is Annabeth Chase: daughter of Athena, chief strategist, and my friend through many adventures."

"Pleased to meet you," I said.

"I hope I'll be pleased to meet you," she grumbled in reply. "What species are you?"

"Human, as far as I know."

"I'm not convinced. Percy, call a pegasus so she can plug her hair into it." I saw now that she was trying to smile again.

Percy was lost in thought at the moment. "Hold on," he muttered. He then got up, grabbing me by the arm and steering me into the center of the room. "Can someone please find this girl a shower and some clean clothes? Thank you."

Immediately two girls started pulling me out of the room. Last I saw, Percy was perching at Annabeth's bedside again, and they were deep in conversation.

…

Being able to rid myself of three days' worth of accumulated filth felt like rebirth. Never had I been more grateful to take a shower.

Someone had left clothes for me—girls' clothes; standard undergarments, a tank top and cutoff jeans, with short socks and a pair of converse sneakers that I hoped were big enough.

I pulled the clothes on and looked in the mirror. This outfit would eliminate any confusion people had about my gender, and I wasn't sure if I was comfortable with that.

I decided to leave my hair unbraided. I wasn't nearly as pretty as the other girls here (not that it mattered) but my mother had given me cool hair, and for some reason, today I wanted to show it off.

_If there's an army here, there must be food. I'd better get something to eat before I pass out._

…**.**

I followed the noise of many kids talking and eating somewhere on a lower floor.

From one of the rooms branching off of this hallway I heard someone blaring the Top 40 station. People mock me because they think I can't tell the Top 40 songs apart, but even I can sing along with the summer's staple hit:

_ Hey, I just met you_

_ And this is crazy_

_ But you didn't have to cut me off_

_ Make it like it never happened _

_ And now we were nothing_

_ And even when I needed your love_

_ You'd treat me like a stranger and I'd oppa Gangnam style—_

"You are aware that those are three separate songs, right?" asked a female voice.

The speaker was shorter than me, but very tough-looking. She wore her black hair in a jagged mop-top, topped incongruously with a silver tiara. A bow and quiver full of silver arrows were strapped to her back. At first I assumed she was my age, but her heavily lined electric-blue eyes were too sad and weary to be those of a normal teenaged girl.

I bowed instinctively. "Are you Artemis?"

"No, I'm just the lieutenant of her Hunters. My name is Thalia Grace. And you are?"

We shook hands. "I'm Sarah Blackwood, and I'm not sure how I fit into all this. I like your t-shirt." Her t-shirt had a picture of a Barbie doll with an arrow through its head.

Thalia smirked. "Thanks. You look sick. Are you feeling ok?"

"I haven't eaten in over twenty-four hours."

"Come with me. I'll make sure you get breakfast."

She led me briskly through the building.

_I hope I find out what I can do to help soon. I'm starting to feel like dead weight._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Thank you, Megzdancer and schoolsucks*** for your reviews, favorites, and follows! Your support means a lot to me. Cookies for everyone!

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Song lyrics parodied are from "Call Me Maybe" by Carly Rae Jepsen, "Somebody That I Used to Know" by Gotye, and "Gangnam Style" by Psy.

_**Happy Hanukkah to my Jewish readers!**_


	39. XXXI: Many Meetings

**Special Edition Author's Note**

_GwF:_ I'm so sorry for being gone so long! Over a month. Inexcusable.

_Amy:_ But we have good reason.

_Annabeth:_ See, GwF threw a Christmas party for us and all her other fictional friends.

_Rachel:_ Octavian kept trying to corner me under the mistletoe, and Fregley from _Diary of a Wimpy Kid _bit Magnus and got turned into a duck-billed platypus, but other than that it was a lot of fun.

_Gollum: _We were quite the Ssssecret Ssssanta, weren't we, precious? We got everyone nice juicy fisssssssh.

_Jace (with a mock bow): _My favorite Christmas gift ever. I shall treasure it always.

_Calvin: _But I didn't get the armored tank I asked for!

_GwF: _To make a long story longer, it was at this party that my PJO/MI/MR crossover muse and my Narnia muse (for my other multi-chapter fic) went missing without a trace. But a Jane Austen muse who I'd never met before convinced me to go to Mansfield Park with her—she said it was the only place in the Austen-verse where maybe I could help sort things out. So, I'm still swamped with schoolwork, but now I was spending my free time at Mansfield.

_Kitt Kilburn (_Narnia_ OC): _After a while we got sick of waiting, so me and the other characters from my universe conspired with the characters from _Tartarus Rising _to get her and our muses back.

_Ron: _It was ugly. Most of the girls started fighting over this Crawford dude, Edmund Pevensie got mixed up with some other guy named Edmund, and Jace got bitten by a pug. Actually, that part was pretty funny.

_Jace: _I. HATE! PUGS.

_GwF: _Anyway, we've kept you waiting long enough. Here (finally!) is Chapter XXXI.

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><p>XXXI. Many Meetings.<p>

Thalia kindly showed me where to find breakfast before disappearing to tend to some pressing business. I chose a mushroom omelet and an English muffin (all food courtesy of Demeter's children) and found a secluded spot in the main lobby to eat and think.

I knew my mom's spirit was telling the truth when she'd said that Amy and Ron were in God's hands now, but that only made me worry more. My poor defenseless cousin. My poor, stupid, reckless little brother.

_Help me, Lord. I've hit a wall._

"Hello," said a female voice in front of me.

She looked a little older than me, and she was outstandingly gorgeous even among all these pretty people. Her hair was long, dark and silky, parted on the side. She had flawless skin, red lips, and huge eyes the color of robins' eggs. But unlike many of the others, there wasn't a hint of cruelty or arrogance in her face, voice or posture: indeed she seemed all sweetness.

"Did you just arrive?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am."

"Who's your godly parent?"

"I have none. I'm not a demigod."

(Gollum had called me a "legacy" but I wasn't sure if that was safe to mention. Maybe these people didn't get along with "legacies" and I hadn't met any who identified as that anyway. Maybe Gollum was simply wrong—he had misidentified Amy as a vampire at first).

"Oh, and still awake? You must be scared. I'm so sorry." She reached out to shake my hand. "I'm a daughter of Aphrodite. My name is Silena Beauregard. Who are you?"

"I'm Sarah Blackwood. Pleased to meet you." As we shook hands, I looked up. Underneath her makeup, her eyes were red-tinted and swollen. She had cried many tears not long ago.

"After you're done eating come to the armory with me. I'll help you find armor and weapons that will fit. Do you have any previous fighting experience?"

"Nothing worth boasting about." I chuckled.

"That's okay. Given who my godly parent was, I haven't inherited any awesome battle skills either. But I have my role in this, and so do we all." She smiled kindly. "Don't worry—you'll find where you belong."

The hair on the back of my neck tingled, and I turned around to see who was watching us.

The guy was sitting on a couch about a hundred feet away, facing someone with a hobbit hairstyle and what appeared to be horns curling out of their head (either a satyr or a faun). The guy staring at Silena and me was (of course) very good-looking; tanned, black-haired, dark-eyed and dressed in black.

It was exactly who I was afraid it was.

How'd he break out of the Recombinant Storage Room?

Once he saw us return his gaze he smirked and turned his attention back to the goat-like individual he was conversing with.

"That's Fang," Silena whispered.

_I know who that is, _I thought miserably.

She continued, "He's been engineered to have giant wings and he escaped from the Itex Corporation. He's one of the Bird Kids; surely you've heard of them?"

Trying to act cool, I stammered, "I thought they were a hoax."

"Oh, sweetie, there are lots of crazy things out there that aren't hoaxes. I learned the hard way—you kind of have to when you're a demigod. Anyway, Fang and his friends escaped from Itex and they're here to help us. Isn't that great?"

"Yes, it's…uh, wonderful."

_Are his "friends" other mutants?...Did they happen to bring Amy? If they did, how can I steal her?_

"Isn't he cute?"

"Uh…"

"Not quite as cute as Percy, though."

"Definitely not."

_Did I just admit a boy is cute? I must really be losing it._

"Or as cute as Charlie." Her lip trembled; I decided now was not the time to ask who Charlie was.

…

By the time Silena and her siblings were ready to fit people for their armor, there was a crowd of us.

Although I suspected she was in mourning, she put on a great show of being happy. If you didn't stand too close, you would never guess her pearly smile was a façade. Also to her credit, she didn't show any fear or revulsion looking upon the genetically mangled individuals Fang had brought with him.

"So, why don't you all tell the group your names and a little about yourselves?" she chirped.

"Why? Are we in kindergarten?" grumbled someone at the back of the crowd. The voice was strange—its tone reminded me of the throaty squawk of a predatory bird. I couldn't tell if it was a boy or girl.

Silena ignored the barb. "I'll start. I'm Silena and my mother is Aphrodite. I like fashion and pegasus flying. Who wants to go next?"

A girl stood in the front who (if you ignored her tank top, short shorts and converse shoes) looked like she could've stepped out of one of those beautiful woodcuts from the last centuries of Imperial Japan. "My name is Kate. I was born normal, and…hmm…I like basketball."

The petite blonde standing next to her spoke with a mouthful of potato chips. "I'm Star and I was born normal too. I like one-upping Ratchet." (Here she pointed with her thumb at the boy on the other side of Kate). "Kate and I are BFFs. We've been through Hell together."

The boy, "Ratchet," wore wraparound sunglasses and noise-cancelling headphones. "I'm Ratchet and I want Kate to go out with me but she can't make up her mind." Kate blushed and Star stomped on Ratchet's foot; decency prevents me from writing down what he said in response.

Next to speak was a lad who I thought at first was ten or eleven, but I learned later was Amy's age. "I'm Holden, but people call me Starfish. Here's why. Silena, may I see your dagger?"

Silena looked understandably concerned.

"I'm not gonna hurt anybody," Holden said earnestly.

Reluctantly the demigod gave him her small blade…and he proceeded to chop off his right pointer finger.

All the non-mutants present were a little shocked at that. Our shock only increased when a new finger grew within seconds out of the bloody stump.

"That's pretty impressive," I managed at last. Holden grinned.

"I'm Sparky and I like Frisbee," panted another boy.

"I'm Hobbes and I'd like a girlfriend," said a handsome redhead, earning chuckles from everyone. The way the sunlight hit him, you could see a translucent stripe pattern on his skin, black on fair.

"I'm Bruce," said a boy with the head of a hammerhead shark.

"Hello, Bruce," Thalia mumbled as she walked past.

The girl next to me seemed a little too cheerful for the circumstances. "My name's Monique but you can call me Nudge and I love fashion and why do emos and preps hate each other because I'm preppy and Fang's emo and we're like family and I miss Max and Ron Blackwood is a jerk and I wish I had a cat and I wish Magnus Bane could teach me how to do makeup and I can't get over how mean Ron is and OMG have you heard Rihanna's latest and—"

Silena pointed to me next.

"I'm Sarah and I wish this war never started."

Nudge looked at me curiously. I returned the stare. _"Ron Blackwood is a jerk…I can't get over how mean Ron is." Uh-oh. What's he done? And WHERE IS HE?!_

"So do we all," said the same person who'd interrupted at the start, the only one who hadn't introduced themselves.

The person had been hiding behind Kate and Ratchet. Now Star yanked them out into view.

You could see why the poor girl (it was clearly female) wanted to hide. Although her body was emaciated and scarred, it was human—unlike her massive, bald-eagle's head. Giant wings hung off her back uncomfortably; apparently she couldn't retract them like Fang could his. Her skin was covered in short white and brown feathers.

"My name's Aquilla," she growled. "I want to die nobly in battle and take a lot of white-coats and Titans out with me, because that's all I'm good for."

"Sweetie, don't say that!" Silena exclaimed. "I'm sure you're a lovely person."

"Whatever."

The daughter of Aphrodite pursed her lips, as if deliberating whether to continue the conversation. "We seem to be missing someone," she said at last.

"Yeah. Rhoda and a few others went missing in the subway tunnels."

"Where's Fang?"

"Right here." He materialized from a patch of shadow behind Silena, making her jump. "Just had to schedule a meeting with Percy. You haven't started without me, I trust?" He smiled at her; although her cheeks colored, she looked angry.

"FANG!" Nudge squealed, bounding over to bear-hug him.

"Well, don't just stand there!" Silena cried in a suddenly choked voice. "Drew! Mitchell! Get these people armed." With that she ran out of the room to hide her tears.

…**.**

The other Aphrodite campers (there were about thirty, as might be expected given their mother's character) made quick work of us; within fifteen minutes, me and all ten mutants had been fitted with a breastplate with an attached kilt of hardened leather strips, crested helmet, greaves, forearm and elbow guards; in addition to a sword, dagger, spear and round shield for everyone.

"Wanna know something cool about the shields?" Mitchell, Silena's half-brother, told me as he gave me mine. "See how there's no device on it? They're magic, built from a design by Hephaestus himself. Each shield customizes itself to the wearer."

I slipped the shield onto my arm. It was heavy, but not as heavy as I expected.

"Watch it now."

Before my eyes colors filled in: a ring of deep blue on the edges, then a ring of purple within it, then a hot pink band within that, then a red band, then orange, then a solid yellow circle at the center. Silver dots materialized across all the colors.

"I'm glad you like it," Mitchell remarked. "You look very happy."

I nodded. "It's an Arizona sunset."

Two shots of color went out from the center, one black, one white. They snaked up, branching off from the shared base thick and straight, before becoming thin and dividing into many tendrils near the top. When the colors stopped moving the image was a black tree and a white tree growing from the same root.

"Never seen that symbol before," he said. "Can you tell me what it means?"

I smiled apologetically. "I was hoping you could tell me."

…

Shortly thereafter I bumped into Will Solace's sister Cynthia, who told me that Clary had made an unexpectedly quick recovery and was asking for Percy and I.

The poor girl was probably starving—sickness tends to make one hungry—so I ran back to the makeshift cafeteria to get her some food.

On the ground floor I ran into Percy, Grover and Thalia.

"Hi, Percy. Cynthia Solace says Clary's been asking for—"

He held up his hand. "It will have to wait. I've been summoned to meet with Prometheus."

With that they swept by me.

_Prometheus is here. _The idea thrilled me. I had no idea whose side that legend was on, but he had always been my favorite mythological character. His courage, standing up to the tyranny of Zeus for the sake of weak humanity, even when it cost him his freedom and earned him thousands of years of torment, was truly admirable.

…

Clary's stomach was probably quite sensitive at the moment. I decided to fetch her some chicken broth; if she could handle solid food, I'd get her toast later.

Weaving between the counters in search of broth and distracted by a thousand thoughts, I crashed into what appeared to be a hole in the fabric of the universe. I guessed it was that because it was pitch-black, had a ragged shape, and seemed to be expanding.

I realized then that my atoms were not pulling apart from each other. Nothing was happening at all. The black hole itself smelled like men's hair product and felt rather…feathery.

"Watch where you're going," Fang grumbled, turning around to see who had walked into his wing.

If a black hole suddenly materialized to swallow me right then, I would have been quite relieved.

The bird boy's eyes widened when he saw me. "Armor suits you, Sarah Blackwood. Perhaps you have demigod ancestors." He'd changed out of his new armor into his usual black clothes.

I nodded, determined to be civil. "Curious that we two should meet again."

"Curious? It's not curious at all. If anything, it's predestined." He spread his hands as if to encompass the whole building. "Look around. Such a crew of demigod warriors hasn't assembled since the fall of Troy. My half of the mutants built to outlast civilization are here. My intelligence tells me that the strongest Nephilim of our time are on their way. Even the fae and the sorcerers know the balance of the world is about to shift." He looked back at me, a purplish glow around the edges of his black eyes. The prospect of leadership clearly set him on fire. "And you are one of us, somehow. You wouldn't be here if you weren't. Maybe we'll find out why."

I cleared my throat. "We both know why. I'm here because, at least at one point in their lives, my parents were evil." Those words stung like a bee on my tongue, but if Mom and Dad were present they probably would have said it first.

"There might be more to it than that."

"I hope not."

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "What brings you to the cafeteria?"

"A friend of mine is sick. I'm bringing her some chicken soup." My eyes drifted to the counter behind him, where seven plates were stacked with pizza, cheeseburgers, hot dogs, chicken nuggets, and lunch meat.

He laughed. "Ah yes, those are all mine. Would you like some?"

"No thanks."

"You look kind of grossed out."

I shrugged in agreement. "If you must pig out, at least pig out on good food."

With a toss of his hair, he changed the subject. "Before you visit your friend, come with me. There's something I'd like to show you before Nudge comes back. Seeing it will just get her angry again."

Reluctantly I nodded. "Sure, if it's quick. I don't want to keep Clary waiting."

…**.**

"These are a lot of plates to carry."

"You don't say."

"Mind if I borrow your shield? I promise not to get any food on it."

"Um…" I was just getting used to the weight of the shield on my arm, but I would rather not part with it, especially not to him.

"Only until we sit down." He turned his dark eyes on me with a pleading expression. "Please, Sarah? I promise to keep it clean. I _promise_."

Reluctantly I handed it over. He held it with the underside up and fitted his plates on it like a waiter's tray. "Thanks."

He smiled. Fang did have an attractive smile, but something seemed off about it to me. There was a smugness lurking in its corners—or perhaps my bias was coloring my perception. At any rate I liked Percy's better; it seemed more genuine.

_Not that any of this matters, of course._

"What did I do now?" Fang asked in a deceptively sweet manner.

"Pardon?"

"You just rolled your eyes, so I assume I offended you somehow."

_I rolled my eyes at my own stupidity. It had nothing to do with you, really—although you do offend me. You offend me because you're sneaky. You offend me because I don't know whether you serve light or dark. _

I shrugged and forced a smile. "My mind was elsewhere. Just—maybe next time you should bring your own tray, er, shield."

…

He placed my shield gingerly on a table, plopped on the neighboring couch, and pulled the laptop that had been idling there onto his knees. "Do sit down."

I took the other end of the couch.

The laptop came awake with a brief flourish of strings music.

"You won't be able to see it from way over there," he remarked. He didn't turn his head, but his eyes glided contemptuously in my direction. Although I'm used to mockery, I had to bite my tongue before something rude slipped out.

Reluctantly I moved down, till I was within a hand's width of him.

He was looking at a page with a photograph of him on it, and a title saying "Fang's Blog." Crafty as he was, you'd think he'd have concocted a more interesting title.

"Remember in January when I told you to read this?" His eyes were still fixed to the screen; his face betrayed no emotion, and his voice bordered on robotic.

"Yes." I stuck to the same monotone.

"Did you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Um…life got in the way. It does that."

"'Life got in the way'?" he repeated, the stoicism in his voice cracking. He turned to look at me, his big black eyes wide with incredulity. The purplish hue lingered, reminding me a bit of Merlynthwarte's. Most disconcerting. "It is only by chance—no, it is only by _destiny—_that you still have a life to get in your way, without consulting me. There are people who want to kill you, Sarah."

"That is _why_ I never corresponded with you. Since everyone treats the internet like a third lung these days, especially teenagers, my enemies would look for me there. So I'm on no social networks. My uncle gave me a cellphone but I never use it. Exactly four people have my email address, and we all live in the same house. Our mutual enemies grilled me yesterday about an alleged alliance with you. Imagine how much worse things would be for both of us if we really had been corresponding."

"That, and the fact that you hate me."

"What makes you say that?"

"Don't bother denying it. You're tense. You look at me with one eye and scout out exits with the other. Getting you to talk is like pulling teeth. Then there was your message to me in the lab yesterday afternoon." He sighed, and scrolled down the webpage. "I honestly have no clue what your brother thought he was doing, but Nudge tells me he's with the shadow-hunters."

_Finally! _Much as I disliked Fang, I was very grateful to him for relaying this information. "What are shadow-hunters?"

"Nephilim. If you met a demigod with funny tattoos and an even stronger sense of entitlement than usual, that was probably one of them."

I clasped my hands nervously on my lap, palms sweating coldly against each other. A disagreeable truth had been growing on me throughout this conversation, and I could no longer swallow it. "Um…Fang," (I avoided his eyes as I spoke) "I'm sorry for how I acted yesterday. It was selfish and cruel of me. I was scared out of my wits, but that's no excuse. This conflict is far bigger than you and me and my brother."

"Thank you for admitting that. I forgive you. And if our situations were reversed—if Nudge had vanished on me and I thought you had something to do with it—I probably would not have been any kinder." Two of his fingertips touched my wristwatch, before he drew his hand back suddenly.

The uncomfortable feeling had eased, but now came back in full strength.

I'd only apologized because it felt like the right thing to do. _Please, Lord, don't let him get the wrong idea. _

He cleared his throat, in a businesslike manner that allayed these new fears. "Read this."

My eyes followed his cursor and I read in a library-friendly murmur. "'Hey all—Ah, New York, New York! Long time, no see. Despite getting nearly killed by—'"

"Below that."

"Why is my name on here? Why are you blogging about me?"

"Never mind. Read the comments; specifically, the third comment down."

I would ask about his mentioning me later. "'Ladies and gents, let's talk about this in a civilized manner. We do not mean to offend you. However the fact remains that Fang is a traitor, a liar, a charlatan, and a thief. Visit .com or .com for more information."

"Click on the second link."

Another blog opened up with the title "Jorblack's Thought Emporium." I know nothing about blog design, but I thought the layout of the page was tasteful. The posts were organized by topic: literature, film, music, attractive female celebrities…

"Search my name."

I typed "Fang" into the blog's search engine. Hundreds of results appeared. I opened the top link.

The blogger—Jorblack the Torchbearer, as he styled himself—had written the following in late May.

_Surely most of you know about the "Bird Kids"—those media darlings who manage to be photogenic and "freaks of nature" at the same time. I'm not going to repeat their nonsense story here. If you're halfway intelligent, you can find it anywhere—and if you're halfway intelligent, you know the whole thing is a lie._

_When my parents died this past January (as described in my first post), my sister and I were met at the funeral reception by a young man of unusual appearance who ate a gargantuan amount of food. He made us both very uncomfortable. My sister left the table for a moment, and he followed her. I saw him again talking to her outside the next day. His demeanor was suspicious, like that of a hunted criminal._

_As months went by and my sister refused to tell me who he was or what had transpired, I became worried. _

_Recently I made the acquaintance of the Icy Blue Hand of Death. The story of his own run-in with this individual can be read in full on his excellent blog, .com_

_We are now aware that this guy is one of the so-called Bird Kids—which means that either my sister, my friend and I have stumbled into a government conspiracy, or we have been most heartlessly pranked._

_I don't know what this is all about, what kind of sicko has the time or the inclination to tack optical-illusion wings onto a modeling-school boy and send him out into the world to prey on the fear and grief of orphans. Either the government is even more vicious than I suspected, or reality television has hit a new low in its never-ending quest to erode our sense of humanity. All I know for sure is that this guy did something bad to me, my sister and my friend. I will not rest until I find out what that is. I will not leave him be until I learn the truth. Like Socrates, I will be a gadfly at his side. I will have justice. I will have my sister back._

_Fang (if that is indeed your name): If you're reading this, you haven't seen the last of us._

My stomach was a roiling knot. "I told you I barely use the internet. Do you think I wrote this?"

"We both know who wrote this, and you _ought _to know him better than anyone."

The truth had been hovering there all along, but now it fell with a sucker punch. For months this person withdrew into himself, alternately reaching out to me or shutting me out. For months he had skulked in his room, blasting Led Zeppelin. Sometimes I'd hear what sounded like computer hum coming from his room into the wee hours, but dismissed it as my imagination. At the beach in June, he had snuck away with Clary and they'd confronted people I could barely see. At the party a few days ago, I spotted him briefly talking to that arrogant blond boy with the strange tatoos, the one who this morning had told me there was something in his building that might interest me...now everything made sense.

"Ron."

"Yes?"

There he stood, my little brother, like I'd called him out of the air. His laptop was in his duffle bag slung over one shoulder, and his guitar was strapped to his back in its case. He held a light green crocheted object in his right hand.

He brushed his ragged hair out of his eyes. "Sarah? Is that you?"

In that moment I didn't care what he'd done. My soul was singing, my prayers answered. Later, when we were each caught up with the other's adventures, we would talk about the Fang issue and any others that needed to be addressed.

I also planned to do something nice for Ron. It was through my pride, my stupidity, that things had gotten this bad. In my quest to protect my brother, I had only acted selfishly and hurt us both. I would make up for that.

But I would worry about that later. Right now I only needed to give thanks. He was alive, apparently unhurt, and we were together again.

I jumped up and threw my arms around him. "Little Brother! I was so worried."

Ron hugged me back, and it felt like the world was back in balance. "I was worried too."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Sorry again for the long wait...and this chapter was another one of people sitting around talking. I'm not entirely happy with it, but it is needed to push the story forward. It's named after a chapter from _The Fellowship of the Ring_ (the one where Frodo meets most of the other important characters before the Council of Elrond). The "hello, Bruce," exchange is a shout-out to _Finding Nemo._

Thank you Ailat, JamesSonOfAthena, and Percabeth Lorien for subscribing, favoriting and reviewing! I really appreciate your support!

Merry Belated Christmas and Happy Belated New Year to all!

P.S. Usually I note when something bad happens in the news, and boy, there has been a _lot _of bad stuff happening since I last wrote. We needn't risk fighting about politics, but I think we can all agree to pray that no more children have to die.


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